Le Monstre de France
by BelleSkellington403
Summary: Catherine is forced into a marriage by her aunt after her father dies. She runs away, but is attacked by a mysterious creature. Though spared, she is trapped in the woods with nowhere to go but an elusive mansion, with an even more elusive host.
1. Chapter 1

**Paris, 1757**

The ballroom was grand, covered in gold and diamonds and crystal chandeliers. Men and women in white, gold, and blue scattered the floor, chattering. They whispered of their host. His eccentricity, his flamboyance, his riches. Most of all, they spoke of his music.

His music was unconventional to say the least. They say, as a boy, he would strum the violin like a guitar and slide his hand down the harpsichord to make a discord of sound. But for whatever reason, the people enjoyed it. And he loved the attention it brought him.

The large gold doors swung open and he sauntered in, his suit the same color as his raven black hair, embroidered in silver and pearls. From the large circular window above the grand door, the full moon shone as if to watch him as well. He placed his music on the stand and faced his orchestra, turning briefly to wink at a few blushing ladies in the audience.

He lifted his hands, turning to the guitarist. The confused audience watched as the strings were plucked in an upbeat rhythm unlike anything of conventional music. The orchestra then joined in, swelling in the allegro of the Host's hands. The music crescendoed and abruptly ended.

The audience rejoiced despite the unorthodox practice. The proud conductor turned and bowed. He glanced at the talented guitarist at the front, and he whacked him across the head with his baton. He bowed again.

Suddenly, the hall doors burst open! The Host snapped his head towards the front as a hunched figure hobbled inside. The audience stared at it, but the Host held his ground.

"What is the meaning of this?!" he demanded.

The figure lifted its head. A haggard old woman, dressed in fine garments and a thick cloak. The Host sneered.

"I have come for the performance, monsieur." Her voice was low and raspy, making him bristle. "I assure you I was invited."

She held her invitation letter in a wrinkled hand. Despite him being three feet above her on the stage, he flinched back.

"And I assure you that I would never invite a shriveled old hag like yourself!"

She dug into her cloak and pulled out a small satchel. "If you insist on payment, I can provide."

He scoffed at the money, snatching it and tossing it aside into a drum.

"I don't care for your money, wench! Leave this hall!"

She leaned forwards, pointing at him with a gnarled finger. "Should my appearance be the one to ruin the beauty of your music? Or is it yourself, my Lord?"

He leapt from the stage, intent on striking the old woman. "I order you to leave this hall!"

She continued to point at him. His anger rose to his head. He raised his hand to slap her, but it stopped mid-swing. His hand, caught in the strong grip of the woman.

He watched in awe and horror as her wrinkles became smooth, her nails clean and slender. Her wispy, white hair turned a full gold. She gazed at him with violet eyes, throwing away her cloak to reveal her beautiful glowing form.

The Host's audience began to scream, running from the scene as he stood frozen in fear. The witch's eyes pierced through his.

"_The moon you adored so, its light being your halo, your star. And so now it shall be your doom."_

She released his hand. He stepped back and held his wrist in pain. He winced as the pain grew worse, coursing down his arm and up his shoulder. He stared in horror as his hands began to twist and morph, claws extending from his fingertips.

_"For your cruelty, your pride, your vanity..."_

He fell to his knees as pain wracked his body. His spine cracked and stretched as his body grew, his coat and jewelry popping off.

_"You shall become the monster you are. The only music you shall sing will be the howls of an animal."_

He screamed in agony as fangs slid from his mouth, his face flattening and lengthening into a muzzle. His eyesight blurred, but he could still see her cruel form. Through the pain, he was asking why. What had he done to deserve this?

_"I will watch over you, my dear Lord. That is, should you survive the night."_

With that, she disappeared and the pain began to ebb away. He gasped for air, trying to wake up from this nightmare. But now all he felt was hungry. Hungry for food. For meat! For _blood!_

He snapped his head up, turning back towards the near empty concert hall. A few unlucky attendees were staring, mouths agape, paralyzed before the creature. He was starving!

* * *

It was cold when he awoke. He sat up, feeling as though he'd overdone it with the wine the night before. Perhaps it had been. Perhaps it had been an awful nightmare. If not for two things:

One, he was in a moving carriage.

Two, he was completely naked.

He peeled back the curtain and shielded his face against the sunlight. But there was hardly any. He was in the forest. Panicked, he banged on the carriage walls, screaming for the driver to let him out. But the carriage rode on.

He went for the handle. As soon as his hand meet the silver knob, he recoiled. His fingers blistered with red and yellow. He held his head in panic. How could this have happened?!

He gripped his hair, trying to relay the events of the previous night. There was the music, the audience, the people...and then the woman.

The _witch!_

_"I will watch over you, my dear Lord."_

He pounded on the ceiling. "Let me out! Let me out this instant! I demand to know where I am being taken!"

The carriage slowed, and light shone through the driver's window. A boy with mouse-brown hair, large eyes, and freckles greeted him and waved.

"Should I say something to him, Mother?" he asked in English. A plump woman sat beside him holding the reins.

"So, he's awake, is he?" she asked. He recognized the voice.

"Mrs. Townsend?" he asked.

"Apologies for the unfortunate travels, sir," she said. "But we had to get you out of there quickly."

"Mrs. Townsend, what happened last night?" he demanded. "Why is everything so strange all of a sudden?!"

She paused, as if she were afraid to tell him. He banged on the window, his anger rising.

"I order you to tell me, Mrs. Townsend!"

The boy jumped back after his outburst, hiding behind his mother. He pointed at the young lord, shouting "Your eyes! Your eyes!"

He knitted his brow in confusion, until he saw his reflection in the glass. His eyes, supposed to be a deep forest green with flakes of blue, were now bright yellow. His thin face was now also covered in facial hair, something that he knew had been shaven the night before. His anger ebbed into fear, and his eyes returned to their normal green. The Lord collapsed to the carriage floor and gripped his hair.

"What is happening to me?!" he cried. "What's happening to me?!"

The carriage bumped, knocking him onto his side. Mrs. Townsend sighed, gently pushing her son back to a sitting position.

"We're taking you to a safe place, dear," she said reassuringly.

Safe place? He shook his head. He wanted to go back to Paris, back home! He closed his eyes and begged. He begged to wake up from this nightmare, from this curse that he did not deserve!


	2. La Belle du Mont Margeride

**Chastel, edge of the Margeride mountains, November 1766**

Tables were filled, men happily laughing and drinking. A stout woman in green was serving her honored guest, Jean-Charles Porcher. He was waiting, waiting for what he came for. The lights dimmed and the deep red curtain parted on the stage, revealing the most beautiful woman with auburn hair and hazel eyes. Her white dress flowed past her feet as the guitar and flute hummed slowly.

_"She's __resplendent,  
So confident,  
La Seine, La Seine, La Seine_

_I realize,  
I'm hypnotized,  
La Seine, La Seine, La Seine_

_I hear the moon  
Singing a tune,  
La Seine, La Seine, La Seine_

_Is she divine?  
Is it the wine?  
La Seine, La Seine, La Seine_

_I don't know, don't know  
So don't ask me why  
That's how we are  
La Seine and I_

_That's how we are  
La Seine and I_

_That's how we love  
La Seine and I."_

The song ended, and the singer bowed. She glanced up at her applauding audience, then at the box where Porcher and the stout woman - her aunt - were watching. Her aunt pointed to Monsieur Porcher and waved her hand up her cheek, bidding her to smile for him. She grinned obediently and received a nod from him in return.

She stood up and backed further into the stage, the curtains closing.

* * *

Catherine could barely hear her aunt. She unpinned another pearl from the curls in her hair.

"Catherine, _ma petite!_ Are you listening?"

"Yes, Aunt Sophie," she lied.

"He is brave. He is charming. His father owns a lot of land, so you will be well taken care of - "

"He's pompous." She dropped a pearl on the vanity.

"He's a hard worker - "

"He's arrogant!" Another pearl.

"He could be the solution to our problems!"

"_Your _problems!" Catherine ran her hairbrush through her curls. "Sophie, please. I love you, but - "

Sophie sighed exasperatedly. "Oh, Catherine. Enough of your dreams of running off to Paris and teaching music!"

"If I can't have that, can I have my say not to marry Porcher?"

Sophie glared at her through the mirror, Catherine pulling the brush through a tangle. She absentmindedly thumbed the silver ring around her finger.

Sophie sighed and set her hands on her niece's shoulders. "_Ma petite._ I know this is hard to understand. But, your father would have wanted this. Married to the son of the man who tried to save your father's life! Wouldn't you want your father to be proud?"

Catherine shuddered at the memory of her father's death. Hearing the messenger relay the details, the horror of it, her blood boiled. The ring was all that was left to her, and his will.

"You must remember your place. You're a woodsmith's daughter, not a performer. One day, Catherine, you will look back on this and think of it as a silly memory." Sophie put on her scarf. "I want you back home before sundown. I've heard the wolf attacks are becoming more frequent."

"Yes, Aunt Sophie," Catherine droned, staring blankly into the mirror as Sophie left her dressing room.

_Marry Jean-Charles?! _she thought in disgust. _He's an animal. The only thing he knows is killing and women._

She pulled off her mother's ring. Would she and her father really have wanted this for her?

A knock came at her door.

She hastily slid the ring back on and straightened. "Who is it?"

"Your best admirer~."

A large grin spread across her face and she ran to the door. "Gilles! Oh, _mon ami, _you made it!"

She hugged the elderly man and smiled. "Your performance was magnificent. You have the voice of an angel." He opened his hands, revealing a small wooden rose painted yellow. She thumbed the finely carved leaf, tracing the petals. There were no roses on this side of the mountain, but a wooden rose from Gilles's hand was just as sweet.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Thank you, Gilles."

He chuckled, coughing a bit before offering her her evening scarf. "Shall I do the honor of escorting a lovely mademoiselle home?"

"Oh, are you going to protect me, monsieur?" she teased, tying the scarf over her shoulders.

He chuckled again. "Wouldn't do you much good if it were me. I believe you'd be able to protect me what with the way you wield an axe."

"Shh!" she hushed him. "Do you want me to be seen as an axe-wielding maniac?" The two laughed over each other's silliness and proceeded outside into the cold.

_Wolf, _she thought, rolling her eyes. If it were so dangerous, Jean-Charles would be out day and night hunting for it. But, instead he was hunting day and night for a greater price.

* * *

The axe split the wood in two with one swing. Catherine wiped her brow as she heaved another log from the pile and raised her axe. To the naked eye, anyone would think this would be no easy task for her. But she halved it with ease and added the halves to the stack.

"Good day to you, mademoiselle!"

She jumped from her thoughts, throwing the axe in the direction of the voice. Jean-Charles ducked just before it lodged into an old oak.

She gasped. "Oh my goodness! I'm so sorry! I get frightened easily and - "

He shook his head. "No, it's my fault, Catherine. I should have known better than to sneak up on you like that." He swung his arm out to her, a bouquet of flowers in his hand.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, trying to feign excitement. "How...thoughtful."

"You know, I heard your performance last night."

"Yes," she said. "I saw you."

"And you know," Jean-Charles continued. "It was so beautiful, your voice is so angelic."

"Thank you," she said uncomfortably.

"If you would like, I could offer you a place in the tavern. It has a much better stage, and I'm sure they'll pay us well."

She winced as if she had been pricked. The tavern was the last place she would perform. She had seen what drunken men preferred to watch, and how more clothing mattered less to them. She hastily returned the flowers.

"Thank you for the gesture, but - " she gently pushed him aside and grabbed her axe handle. "I think I'm alright where I am."

"Oh!" he cried. "Let me help you with that. It's probably too deep for you to pull out." He pushed her aside and grasped the handle. He pulled at it, but it would not budge. She shielded her eyes from the ridiculousness of the situation and listened to him strain. When she looked up, his feet were a meter off the ground and his hands were pulling the handle from between his legs.

She groaned. "Oh, for crying out loud! Let me do it!"

He fell in a heap and scrabbled to his feet. "Please, Catherine. A dainty young lady such as yourself could never pull an axe so deeply stuck - "

She gripped the axe in one hand and yanked it from the tree. She held back a laugh as his jaw dropped in amazement.

"Oh, I'm sorry, did you want to try? I'll put it back in - "

"No! No, no, no! That's not necessary," he assured her, stretching his arms around him. "Clearly I loosened it up for you."

"_Clearly..."_ Catherine strode back over to the wood pile, slicing another log in half. Behind her, she heard him sigh. Was that disappointment or frustration she heard? She hoped it was both. She froze when his hands fell on her shoulders.

"Catherine, you can't be seen like this!"

"Like what?" she demanded. "Seen like what?"

"Well," he continued. "Woodwork and wielding axes are men's work. Who knows how hurt you could be if you lost control of that axe."

"I know what I'm doing!"

"No, you don't." Her shoulders squeezed under his grip. "Catherine, you could hurt yourself flailing that thing around like a toy."

"I only threw it because you frightened me!" she argued. She stepped forward, but fell back into his chest. His hands twisted around her arms. "Jean, let go of me!"

"I promised your father I would keep you safe! I promised on his dying breath. Could you ever dishonor that?"

She stopped. It had been nine months since her father's murder, but her grief hadn't changed. He had been the one who taught her to swing an axe, reading her stories, making her laugh. He seemed to always know what was best for her. But, she had difficulty seeing how to find that in Jean-Charles.

He finally released her after being silent for too long. "Catherine, I love you."

She said nothing, her back to him. She heard him turn and walk back towards Chastel, away from her small mill. It took all her strength not to strike that axe into the side of his head. What life could she ever have with him? What life could be better than the one she had in mind?

She turned back to the log in front of her and raised the axe again. Her knuckles began to whiten, and she dropped the tool to her side. More than anything, she wished she could run away.

* * *

**Music "_La Seine and I" _by Vanessa Paradis**


	3. Espouser un Porcher

Sunlight shone on Catherine's face the next morning. Her book was forgotten on the floor, the fire in the hearth reduced to ashes, and her blanket pulled tightly around her. She slid out of bed to get dressed, absentmindedly looking out the window. She did a double take as she realized the town was setting up for a grand event in the field.

_Odd, _she thought. But she paid it no mind as she slipped into her usual white dress and brown shawl. She had just pulled on her shoes when a knock came at her front door. She rushed over and opened it.

Sophie gasped. "_Ma petite, _surely you are not wearing that!"

Catherine looked herself over. "But I always wear this."

"Go back and change into your finest!" Sophie ordered. "You cannot possibly come to the party looking so plain."

"Party?" Catherine questioned. "What party? What for?"

Sophie waved her hand at her. "Never mind that, _cherie._ Go get dressed." She shoved her back inside and shut the door. Catherine stood dumbfounded.

Party? Get dressed? What was her silly aunt playing at this time? She shook her head and proceeded back to her wardrobe.

* * *

Catherine stepped outside in a simple, but elegant blue dress, her hair pulled back with a ribbon. She hugged her scarf around her shoulders as she made her way to the field. Around this time, the ground was too solid for any harvest and was mainly filled with cows or sheep. A ram carcass lay across the road, torn apart and left for the buzzards. The attacks on livestock had become more frequent that year. She had even heard of a few attacks on people. No one was killed yet, but she figured it was only a matter of time before someone hunted down the creature.

She came upon the entrance of the party. Large tables were set around a clearing for dancing. The musicians of the small music hall were providing such, and an archway of flowers was hung over a white and red banner. She gulped nervously and slowly entered the crowd. Everyone turned to stare at her.

She waved sheepishly, and they returned to their conversations.

"Catherine!" Sophie called, waving her over. She stood next to a large, burly man in red. He held a tankard in one hand, his other stuffed into his coat pocket. Catherine slowly approached. Sophie wrapped her arm around her shoulders.

"_Monsieur Porcher, _my niece Catherine DeCiel." She nudged her subtly, and Catherine smiled obediently.

"Thank Heavens," Jean-Charles's father said tensely. "I thought you'd never arrive. Jean-Charles is waiting to dance with you."

Catherine nodded, too intimidated to move or look anywhere except the ground. Monsieur Porcher's gaze intensified.

_"Go."_

She snapped out of her trance and quickly made over to the dance.

"Quite slow, isn't she?" she heard him grunt.

"No, no," Sophie said. "She's shy. She hasn't quite been the same since her father died."

Another hand clasped her shoulder, making her gasp. She turned and refrained a grimace.

"Apologizes, Catherine," Jean-Charles exclaimed.

She put her hand to her chest. "You keep surprising me."

"I'm full of surprises," he proclaimed, smoothing back his hair. She smiled, wishing she had a hatchet on her belt just in case. He grabbed her hand. "Come, let's dance."

She slipped her hand away. "No! Thank you, but...I'm sorry. I'm not much of a dancer." She glanced at the ground. "Two left feet, I suppose."

He rolled his eyes and smirked. "A bit of practice never harmed anyone." He grabbed her hand again and dragged her into the circle. Her heart quickened as he held the back of his hand to hers, turning them slowly. She inhaled shakily, trying to calm herself. He began to turn them to the center of the floor, taking her hand and her waist. Her breath hitched suddenly.

_I must calm down!_ she thought frantically._ Pull yourself together, Catherine. Dancing hasn't killed you yet._

She diverted her gaze to the scene around her. The other guests partying, the woods beyond the village, the high mountains now thick with snow. A flock of birds flew over them.

She awoke from a bump to her shoulder. Jean-Charles led her around the floor.

"Pardon us! Mademoiselle DeCiel is a bit distracted." He stood across from her, standing in line with the other men as they began a step. "_Where is your head?!"_

"I was just thinking about how there are 5000 species of songbirds, and how each song means something different. Like a story."

He stared at her, almost disturbed. "I think it's best to keep your thoughts to yourself."

"Oh really?" she asked as he seized her for another waltz. The sudden touch made her tense. "My father used to say that one thought could create a star."

"Your father must have intended to have a son."

Catherine's throat stuck, stopping the dance just as the music ended. He bowed to her and took to some friends by a keg of ale. She stood dumbly while the other dancers scattered away. Finally, she made her exit and hid amongst the apple orchards nearby. What a fool she'd been! Perhaps if she had stayed home, she would have been saved the embarrassment.

She sat and pulled her knees to her chin. She had to think rationally about this. Was her life completely miserable? No. Could it be better? Possibly. Contently performing at the music hall and keeping up her father's old mill didn't seem so bad in her mind. She had no problem living there alone and keeping some piece of her father alive. And she loved her aunt and Gilles dearly. But, Porcher...

She clenched her teeth. The thought of being his lover made her stomach churn. He came unannounced at all hours of the day, whistled at her in public as she walked by, once grabbed her by the skirt and began dragging her towards the tavern. She was only glad she had been strong enough to pull away.

A rustling came to her left. She crouched, hoping it wasn't Jean-Charles coming to find her. She let go of her breath when she saw Gilles's face among the apple leaves. She stood and made her presence known.

"Catherine! There you are, I have been so worried!"

She hugged his waist gently, her hands shaking.

"_Ma cherie, _you are trembling like a leaf. What on earth is the matter?"

She looked towards Jean-Charles by the ale keg. He was laughing, one foot on a stool, a tankard in one hand and a blunderbuss in the other. He raised his gun and fired, Catherine flinching at the loud _BANG!_ that echoed the valley. His mates - the large, portly man Thomas; a pair of young, impressionable teenagers Victor and Clement; the short, but skinny little imp called Arnaud - were laughing and joking around him, toasting their beers and chugging them down.

Gilles glanced between them and Catherine. "...I take it you haven't been enjoying yourself."

She groaned. "Gilles..." He gently took her hands, trying to soothe her. "I'm trying so hard not to complain. I know I should be grateful for what I still have left, but - "

"You are unhappy. And understandably so."

She sighed. "What am I going to do, Gilles? My father has passed, my aunt is so insistent that I marry, and the man who wants to marry me is a pig!"

His eyes darted away from her, as if he were guilty. Or, perhaps he was hiding something.

"Gilles?" she asked suspiciously. "Gilles!"

His gaze snapped back to hers, his moustache quivering over his lip. "Jean-Charles is going to ask for your hand!"

_**"WHAT?!" **_She stepped back in shock.

"Your aunt gave her blessing, the wedding is already being planned." He turned back to the party. "This is your engagement party."

Her breath caught in her throat, cold sweat pouring down her face. _Marry _Jean-Charles Porcher?! He hadn't even proposed yet, and he and her aunt were already planning their wedding. She held her hands to her face, repeating "no" over and over.

Gilles cautiously took her hands from her face. "_Ma cherie, _I'm so sorry."

She bit her lip, choking back hot, angry tears. She leaned into his chest as he patted her back.

"Catherine, they will be waiting for you."

She lifted her head and turned back to the party. They had grown a bit restless. She wiped her eyes and dusted off her dress. "Gilles, what will become of you?"

He fell silent, but gestured back to the party for her to go. She stepped back towards the party, looking back at Gilles as she did so. She finally passed through the trees and rejoined the party, immediately taken by the arm towards the archway of flowers.

* * *

The party crowded around the arch. Sophie was weeping loudly into her handkerchief. Monsieur Porcher stood with his face blank, as per usual. Catherine felt all eyes on her as she stood underneath the flowers, her hand held by Jean-Charles as he knelt on one knee.

"Catherine DeCiel..." he started. Catherine glanced over his shoulder and snickered. "_What?"_

_"You have a cat on your coattail." _

A small tortoise-shell cat was pawing at his coattail, seemingly wanting to play. He turned, trying to kick it away.

"Don't hurt her," she pleaded, taking the feline and gently turning her away from the party. She turned back to Jean-Charles as he was donning a pair of gloves. He took her hands again, this time crawling up her wrists.

"Catherine DeCiel," he began again. "I would like to ask you for your hand in marriage."

She shifted uncomfortably, glancing back at the crowd. Sophie stared at her, nodding. Catherine turned back to Jean-Charles.

"Well...you've gone through all this trouble for me. You're a powerful man. Your family is prestigious. You can protect me..._And I shouldn't want to end up like..." _She turned to Gilles, sadness in his eyes as he understood. She pulled away from Jean-Charles, backing away from them all. "This is happening too quickly!"

Sophie approached her niece. Catherine stopped.

"_I won't. I can't!"_

She turned and she fled.


	4. Echapper

She slammed the door to the mill and bolted it. Her mind was reeling. He proposed! Her aunt had arranged it, Gilles had known about it, and Catherine herself had been a fool to fall for it. She peeked out the window. The field was emptying, and the sun was covering with clouds. Never in her life had she been so embarrassed with everyone staring at her. What were they expecting anyway?! The situation itself seemed ridiculous.

She pressed her back to the wall and slid to the floor. Whether she said yes or no didn't matter, she knew. The wedding was already planned. It could be as soon as tomorrow or in 10 years, but it was set. She lifted her head, her eyes looking over the paintings on the wall.

Paris.

She was born in Paris, left when she was a little girl. But she never forgot her home there. It was small, modest. A bit dirty, but it was home to her. She had once skipped through Montmartre, admired the artists who sold their works. She heard the singers and musicians in the theatres, and she knew that was what she wanted. Until her mother died, and her father's heart along with her.

A sudden knock came to the door. She leapt to her feet, fearful of who might be behind it. Sophie? Jean-Charles? Or, worse yet, Jean-Charles's father?! She peeled back the curtains to see outside. On the doorstep was a gangly, elderly man with a white moustache.

She gasped in relief and opened the door. Gilles rushed in.

"Gilles, what - ?!"

"No time to explain!" he interrupted, surprising her. He shoved a large shirt, some bandages, a cap, and a pair of breeches into her arms. "Put these on and meet me in the stables! Quickly!" With that he bolted from the house at a speed she didn't know he could reach. She locked the door again and looked at the clothes in her arms. She hoped she knew what he was implying.

* * *

Catherine reached the stables a half hour later, her hair pushed up into the cap. She struggled with the bandages around her breasts as they dug into her ribs, but she found running in trousers was much easier than in skirts and petticoats. Her axe was strapped to her belt. She opened the door, but stepped with caution. These were her aunt's stables, after all. She was never a rider by any means, but she was very meticulous about everything on her property.

"Gilles?" she called softly. "Gilles, it's me. Are you here?"

A creak alerted her to the other end of the stable. Cautiously, she stepped in weather-worn boots towards the sound. The clouds overhead were growing darker. As she approached the wide open doors at the other end, she was greeted by a prepared cart. It was full and hitched up to a strong horse.

"Catherine?"

She whipped around, her hand on the axe handle. Gilles limped over, a large sack on his back. He threw it onto the flatbed of the cart.

"Gilles, what is going on?"

He was looking around in a panic. "No time! Get into the cart. Under the burlap! Quickly!"

Without much choice, she climbed onto the flatbed and crawled under the pile of burlap sacks. The cart lurched forward on the dirt path. Catherine gripped the boards with her nails, confused and a bit frightened. Was Gilles attempting to kidnap her? While not exactly an uninvited thought, the notion wasn't exactly practical. Or morally correct. She carefully peeked out of the burlap. It had begun to rain slightly, enough to where everyone was retreating to their houses.

The cart hobbled into the woods, and Catherine lifted her head.

"Gilles, what in God's name is going on?!" she demanded. "Are you kidnapping me?"

He turned over his shoulder, stuttering some sort of excuse before he finally turned back to the road. "It does seem that way, doesn't it?"

She climbed up to the driver's seat. "I know I was going to be married anyway, no matter what I said at that stupid party."

"But you've never been one to simply resign to fate," he noted.

She tried to find something to prove him wrong, but ended with "Point taken."

"I would have had you," she tried. "You work for my aunt, have been for many years."

"Not anymore," he said somberly. He snapped the reins to urge the horse faster.

Catherine jerked back a bit. "Why not?" He fell silent. "Gilles, why not?!"

"...Your aunt ended my employment!"

"Why?!"

He stammered before answering. "I told her that you would want no part of being forced into any marriage, and she accused me of having too much influence over you. But, I... I thought nothing good could come from Les Porchers. I owe them, that's why I was working, you see. I was leaving anyway, so I had to tell you and - !"

"Stop! Stop," she begged. "Gilles, take a breath." He inhaled shakily, gripping the reins again. She took off her cap, taking his cold, shaking hand. "We can't turn back now, I suppose."

* * *

Night fell some hours later.

Gilles curled up on the burlap sacks while Catherine took the reins. She had wrapped her scarf around her shoulders, as well as a thick cloak she'd found in one of the trunks. A lantern hung on the spoke in front of her to light the way. Although exhausted and freezing her fingers off, she knew it was safer to keeping going. Setting up camp could attract robbers, bandits, or wild animals.

Gilles shifted behind her. This entire situation he'd set her in seemed like something from a story. Ridiculous and romanticized, but what she'd always wanted! It was an adventure, an exciting new start for her. To go back to Paris could mean so much opportunity! To sing for the most powerful people would be an honor, and perhaps she could find someone whom she loved to marry her.

But she had to think realistically. Women could not work outside the realm of a kitchen. The only chance she'd have to perform would be in a tavern...or a brothel. With little money in her pocket, she could barely buy bread or a bit of cheese. At least in Chastel, she'd have food, a warm bed, and a bit of money to come by. But, it would still leave her in the same place: in the kitchen or in the bedroom.

She decided the streets were better.

A snap alerted her. She pulled at the reins, stopping the cart. Gilles sat up in attention.

"What's going on?"

"_Shh!" _She took the lantern off its spoke and waved it in front of her. She searched around them for any movement. Something was following them. She climbed into the flatbed and held it out towards the path behind them. She stared into the blackness for what felt like an eternity, certain she could see something.

Her heart leapt to her throat as a pair of large, yellow eyes stared back at her.

"Gilles, go!"

"What?"

Catherine jumped back into the driver's seat and snapped the reins sharply. _"Aller! Maintenant!"_

The horse whinnied and broke into a gallop. The cart bounced over the beaten path, the beast's panting approaching behind them. Gilles held to the rails as he crawled up to her.

"What is it?!"

"Wolves!" she cried. She put the lantern back on the spoke, giving the reins to Gilles. She whipped the axe from her belt as the beast drew closer. She held the axe in position. The creature ran closer to the back end of the cart, giving a horrible snarl. Once its teeth neared the wheels, she swung the blunt end of the blade into its snout. It whimpered and stopped in surprise.

She looped the axe back around her belt and journeyed back to the driver's seat. Glancing over her shoulder, she realized the beast was still on its feet, and gaining on them.

"We need to go faster!" she screamed.

"The horse won't go any faster. The poor mare's too weighed down."

Catherine checked under the carriage, noticing the rope binding it to the horse. _We can get more supplies, _ she reasoned.

"Get on Fleur's back!" she ordered.

The old man obediently did so, fearfully holding to the mare's mane. She handed him the lantern and prepared to mount the horse behind him. The flatbed jerked heavily, nearly knocking her off balance. Her axe nicked the rope, sawing through half of it. Her head turned to see the largest creature she'd ever known. It was patched with furs, but mostly splotched and balding, incredibly thin, with sharp claws on its paws and sharper fangs in its mouth. It swiped at her, slicing a gash into her left arm.

"Catherine!"

She swung her axe at the creature, knowing a quick slice to the stomach or throat and she'd be dead. She kicked at its muzzle and jumped onto the horse's back just as it swiped its paw again. She raised her axe over her head to chop the rope. The creature whipped forward to snap at her.

In one split second, she brought the blade down to smash its head. She heard a snap, and the horse flashed at great speed, leaving the cart and the creature behind. She stopped to catch her breath, sure she had been less than a second away from death. She turned to sit on the horse properly.

Her joy was short-lived when her forehead met wood. Her head hit the ground and her body fell limp. Gilles called back out to her, but the horse ran on. And she had no intention of stopping until the woods were far behind.

Catherine sat up, rubbing her aching head. She brought her hand to her face. Or, rather, hands. There were two of her right hands, now three. The world was beginning to spin violently and the woods rang with a high-pitched wailing sound. A low growl mingled with the ringing, and she realized the creature was slowly approaching her. Her legs were pudding beneath her, her arm dripping with blood and her head pounding painfully.

The beast stood onto its hind legs, lifting a paw to strike her. She held up her good arm to defend herself, her silver ring gleaming in the moonlight. The creature shrieked, recoiling as if it had been the one hit. She stared in confusion. It sniffed at her, gazing at the ring around her finger. After some time, it growled and took off into the woods.

Slowly lowering her arm, she gasped for air. Her lungs burned with frosty dew. Everything was dancing, the ringing becoming too much. Her face met the earth again, and her eyes closed.

* * *

A gentle licking at her face roused Catherine from her sleep. She peeked from behind her eyelids. A small tortoise-shelled cat gazed at her with curious eyes.

"Well, hello there. What are you doing all the way out here?"

The cat trilled, digging her head under her bleeding arm. Dawn was beginning to break. Who knows how long she'd been out there! Her fingers felt like stones on her hands. The cat once again trilled and dug her head under her arm, forcing her to sit up.

"What are you doing?" she asked it.

The cat blinked at her and stood up on its hind legs, as if begging for food. Catherine stood, trying to hold her wound closed. The earth spun a bit still, but she steadied herself on a tree.

The cat meowed, rubbing against her legs before disappearing into some brush behind her. Worried that the cat could be injured, Catherine stumbled after her. Thick bushes and tall grasses sliced at her hands and face. The cat meowed again, directing her left towards more thick trees. Catherine's vision was blurring again. She listened for the cat, and she heard her meow to her right.

She staggered until her feet met a smooth path. Perhaps she was back on the right trail. She leaned against another tree and looked up. Instead of a road or a village, a large chateau made of stone and iron loomed over her. A silver gate blinded her as the sunlight bounced into her eyes. The cat meowed for her again, sitting by the gate and grooming herself.

Catherine limped over, her ears ringing loudly in her head. She focused her vision on the cat, two cats, _three..._

Everything was spinning again. The cat stood up and slipped her slender body through the bars. Catherine gripped the thick metal to steady herself, even trying to shake it to alert someone. But everything was too much! She couldn't hold on, and she slumped to the ground.


	5. La Maison du Loup

_"Don't fret, dear. Just a few more stitches and you'll be good as new..._

_"Try not to move, I'm just going to get you some ice for your head."_

_"No, George, you may not drink that!...Because I've told you a thousand times __before!"_

_"Yes, I have counted."_

Catherine's eyes flickered open. The sky was a strange color, crimson red and...velvety? After blinking a bit, she realized she was staring up at a canopy. Soft sheets were beneath her. A fresh bandage was wrapped around her forearm. It dawned on her: she was in the house! She gasped and sat up, but immediately became dizzy and swayed to her side. What felt like soft arms caught her, gently bringing her back to the pillows.

"Don't worry, dear. You're safe." It was a woman's voice. Almost like her mother's, but richer and with a hint of Welsh. She opened her eyes again. A plump woman with graying hair and kind brown eyes smiled at her, pulling the blankets up to her chest. Catherine rubbed her head, noticing her hair was loose behind her. Her clothes had been replaced with a fresh nightgown.

"_W-Where am I?" _she asked blearily.

The kind woman dabbed some cold water on her forehead. "That's not for you to worry about now. Go back to sleep."

* * *

Mrs. Townsend watched until the girl closed her eyes again. The poor thing was freezing when she found her, not to mention bleeding. She managed to patch her up and get her warm, after realizing she was only _dressed _like a boy. What she wanted to know was how she'd gotten there in the first place.

Crashing from the other side of the house caught her attention. She groaned. "I don't have time for this."

She looked back at the young girl, debating on whether she could leave her. Another loud bang made her flinch. Mrs. Townsend rolled her eyes and slowly left the room, quietly closing the door. With a rush of her skirts, she raced up the hall and down the large staircase to the western end of the house. The doors were made of bronze - something of a design flaw - and were bolted shut. Seems they had been since the night before. It was only temporary, she reasoned, until the silver room was repaired.

She took a spear from the wall and cautiously unlatched the locks.

The room was dark and cold. A fire was starting to light in the hearth, but its owner was curled up on the rug in front of it. His hands gripped its so hard, large tears streaked down the seams. He moaned, trying to bring himself to his knees.

Mrs. Townsend approached slowly. "Sir?"

He slowly looked up at her. He said nothing, but his eyes shone in the firelight. His arm collapsed beneath him, and he fell to the rug. She rushed over and held him up gently. He shook with pain and cold.

"How much pain are you in?" she asked.

"_Everything aches..."_ he managed. She set him back on the rug and threw a cloak over him to protect his dignity. "_It's getting worse...I can't predict when it - "_

She hushed him gently and drew him up to his chair. "Rest, my lord. Let me fetch you some tea." She ran back to the door.

"_Wait!" _he called back to her. "_Something's different..."_

Confused, she turned and knitted her brow. His hair fell over his eye as he leaned over the armchair.

"Something wrong, dear?" she asked innocently.

"_...Who? Who did you let in? Who was it?! I CAN SMELL THEM!"_

She flinched a bit, but knew he couldn't hurt her now. She held the door's handle. "George found her lying by the South Gate. She was bleeding, and very cold."

"_She?" _he asked.

"...Yes."

He paused, the fire crackling in front of him. He was thinking, of what, she could only fear. He finally leaned back in his chair. Mrs. Townsend sighed in relief and closed the door.

* * *

Next Catherine awoke, she was propped up into a sitting position. She sat up a bit and found herself less dizzy than the previous time. Her room was empty, but it was elegant. Emerald green walls reached to the ceiling. A fire crackled happily in front of her in a hearth. A washtable was set up for her beside her bed, and another table and a soft chair were by the window.

She slowly slid out of bed, but hissed in pain. She forgot. The bandages.

She held her left wrist and experimentally gave it a squeeze. She cried out.

"I wouldn't do that, dear."

The woman, the one who was tending to her, stood in the doorway. She was wearing a different dress than before, but her hair was pinned the same. She rushed over and gently led her back to bed. Catherine held her hands up.

"Madame, please! I'm alright, I assure you."

She pulled the covers over her legs. "I'm sure you feel that way, but you took a nasty blow. We wouldn't want you fainting again."

Catherine leaded back, trying to relax and leaving her time to think. She had run away, been attacked by a creature in the woods, separated from her only friend after she chopped off - Her axe! She'd lost her axe!

She sat straight up. "Madame! Did I have an axe on me?"

The woman whipped around in shock. "I do beg your pardon?!"

"My axe!" She held out her hands to demonstrate. "It was this long. The handle had a tree edged into it, and the blade was chipped a bit. I put it back on my belt! Did you see it?!"

The woman held her hand over her breasts, sighing in relief. "Oh, dear child. You had me believing you'd been bludgeoned. There was an axe on your belt. My son took it to the shed. But, why do you - "

"I always have it," she said simply. "for protection."

She stared at Catherine oddly, raising an eyebrow.

Catherine sighed. "It was my father's. He left it in his will."

Her look softened to one of understanding. The woman wrapped her arms around her, careful not to be too firm with her arm. After a minute of silence, the woman slipped away and held out a tray of food to her.

"You should eat. It's been some time since you have, I'm sure."

She set the tray on her lap. Catherine edged up a bit and took the fork, poking at the bread.

"Forgive me, but who are you?" she asked.

"Florence Townsend, my dear," she said with a smile. "I am the housekeeper here."

The fork in Catherine's hand stopped. "Housekeeper? So you're not alone."

She shook her head. "No, my son also lives here."

As if on cue, the door swung open. A blur of black, brown, and orange leaped onto the bed and crawled between Catherine's legs. Footsteps from the hall thundered into her room, and a small boy with thick brown hair and freckles zoomed in to scoop up the cat.

"Melinoe, you can't be in here!" he scolded in English.

Catherine's eyes grew wide and she gasped. She flew out of bed and swept the boy off her feet. _"COMME C'EST MIGNON!"_

The cat dropped to the floor, the boy in Catherine's arm staring at her incredulously.

"Madame, he is adorable~!" she cooed, hugging him to her chest. The boy wiggled against her. "Who's the cutest little boy? _Who's the cutest little boy~?"_

He struggled. "No! I don't know who your cutest boy is! Mother, who is this monster?!"

Mrs. Townsend giggled before prying Catherine away from her son. "My son, George," she said. She turned to George and said in English. "George, this is..."

"My name is Catherine!" Catherine answered in perfect English. "Catherine DeCiel."

Both Townsends looked equally stunned. Mrs. Townsend spoke first. "Why, you know English!"

Catherine chuckled sheepishly. "My father often had a lot of English clients, and they often talked to me. I was able to learn the more complicated areas when I moved from Paris."

Not wanting to continue into that, she changed the subject.

"So, if you're the housekeeper and he's your son, then who owns this estate?"

The two fell silent again. The cat meowed and sauntered out of the room, leaving George to chase after her out of the room. Catherine turned to Mrs. Townsend, raising an eyebrow. She sighed.

"My lord is very...how do I put this?..."

"Reclusive?" Catherine tried.

"Timid," Mrs. Townsend finished. "Perhaps you will see him during your stay."

"That reminds me." Catherine shifted, leaning on her right arm. "My injury doesn't seem too bad. So, when my vertigo passes, I should be able to leave, right?"

To her surprise, the old woman shrugged. "We shall have to see how the weather agrees. It snows quite frequently in this area during the winter."

Catherine turned to the window. "...When will that be?"

Mrs. Townsend held her hand. "Don't fret, dear. We'll have you home in no time."

Catherine began to say something, but the words lodged in her throat. So she swallowed them and nodded. Mrs Townsend then took her leave. Catherine remained with her hands wringing. What would Mrs. Townsend think if she knew she was a runaway? Would she be tossed out? Thought a thief? What will her host think of her? Did he even know she was there, in his house?

She held her head with her good hand. "What am I going to do?!"

She needed to distract herself. Looking around, her eyes fell on the washtable. A pitcher of water, a bowl, a brush, a comb. She picked the comb in her fingers, plucking one of the spines. A tiny A note strummed out. She ran her finger over it, enjoying some childish satisfaction in the little notes.

Finally getting bored, she placed the comb back in its spot.

* * *

The Lord stood up from the pool as her image, and the plucking of the comb, faded.

A girl. In his chateau! A _GIRL! _

Hours ago, he'd woken up in pain and miserable. Now, it was surreal. A girl...

He shook his head gruffly. There was no way this would work! He'd heard their conversation. She was obviously in a hurry to be somewhere, obviously intent on leaving as soon as possible. She had asked for an axe of all things! Her father's axe. Was she afraid of something? But she knew English, taught herself to an advanced level. She was clearly more intelligent than any peasant could be. Perhaps she was a noblewoman traveling from her countryside home. But, if that were the case, why were the clothes hanging on the line outside that of a young man's?

He rubbed his face, making sure no stray hairs were left on his skin. It seemed smooth enough. He pulled back the curtain a bit, searching for the sky above. It was gray. Snow was coming. He yanked the curtains closed and marched back over to the shimmering pool. He knelt, contemplating his options.

This could be it. His chance to break the curse! He could be rid of this torture...possibly. He still rolled his eyes at what the witch had said that evening:

_"To break the curse, you must look past yourself, see the beauty in another."_

_"What does that mean?"_

_"You must find true love!" _

_"...You've got to be joking."_

He slapped his hand over his face. Why did it have to be true love? Why was it _always _true love?! He supposed witches simply enjoyed playing Cupid, when they weren't eating children and dancing around the forest naked. He rose from the pool and stepped back into his room, closing and locking the doors to his sacred space.

_"Meow"_

He whipped his head around. The cat sat in his doorway, staring at him. She meowed again and began to approach him.

"Get out!" he yelled. "Get out of here! George! George, get your stupid animal out of my quarters!"

George ran in mid-shout and scooped up the feline, petting her and making her purr. "Sorry, sir."

He glared at the boy, covering his face with his cloak. "I've told you to keep your pet out of my sight!"

"Sorry, sir," the boy repeated. He carried the cat out of his master's room, passing his mother as the Lord uncovered his face. He groaned, moving over to his chair in front of the mirror.

"I'm going to kill that boy one day," he sighed, staring at himself hatefully.

Mrs. Townsend approached him, undoing his hair. "Now, now. He's just a lad. He's still learning."

"He's sixteen!" he argued.

Mrs. Townsend bit her lip sheepishly. "All the more reason that he's a bit reckless. But, he really is a good lad." She ran a hairbrush through her master's hair.

"Why did I let him keep that thing?" he asked, mainly to himself.

"Speaking of..._ahem..._keeping, how do you feel about - ?"

"The girl's not going anywhere," he interjected. "And before you say 'you can't hold her prisoner and close her like a caged animal', it wouldn't be my decision anyway! Just look outside." He waved his hand furiously to the window, snowflakes beginning to flutter in the air.

Mrs. Townsend sighed. "As much as I hate to agree, I believe that is true. But..." she pulled out a ribbon and began to tie his hair back. "what do you think of her?"

"What do you mean? I haven't met her yet!"

She pondered, then shook her head. "Never mind." She tightened the ribbon and brushed any loose strands from his face. "When she is ready to come out, you can be properly introduced. But I suggest you be fair to her! The poor dear's been through a lot."

The Lord simply leaned back in his chair and stared at himself. The silence let her know she could leave, and she did. He shook his head, trying to comprehend what on earth he'd gotten into. Whoever this girl was could be his only chance. She had to love him, or he'd stay a cursed man. If only he could call himself a man anymore.


	6. Le Seigneur de la Maison

It was another day before Catherine was allowed out of bed again. Her bandages were changed twice and she was assured that her axe was in good condition. George came to visit her every hour or so, which she enjoyed greatly. She even got to be acquainted with his beloved Tortie cat, Melinoe. George dangled a ribbon over her head as Catherine was getting dressed behind a screen.

"So," he asked. "have you ever killed anyone with that axe?"

"Goodness, no!" Catherine exclaimed. "Axes are not toys! You have to know how to handle one properly before you go swinging it around, and it should only be used on trees. Unless, well..." she rubbed her arm. "Unless the situation absolutely demands it."

"Well, if I had an axe," he said proudly, standing. "I'd give the master what for!" He held his arms in front of him, swinging it madly. "Like this! And _THAT! _AND _THAT!"_

Catherine stepped out, still tying her bodice. "Ah, ah!" She took hold of one of his fists and lowered it. "While revenge is tempting - and, let me tell you, I know! - just because you have something that can be used as a weapon, that doesn't mean you should use it as such."

"But hasn't there ever been someone you wished you'd bash his head in?!"

She nodded. "Oh, definitely! But, if I did, where would that get me?"

He looked up and the ceiling and thought for a minute. "...Justice?"

"The gallows."

He grimaced and shuddered.

"Exactly. _Maintenant, excusez-moi." _She reached the washtable and pulled back her hair. She began to do her usual, but decided since she was in a formal dress, she'd indulge herself. She tied it into a low, loose bun, pinning it with the comb on the table. Using the hand mirror on the table, she checked so see how it looked from the back. It wasn't perfect, but it was alright.

"George?" She turned around, suppressing a squeal when she saw him cuddling Melinoe. "What's your "master" like?"

George groaned and flopped onto the floor. Melinoe padded over to him, grooming his hair. "He's a pillock!"

"...Pardon me?"

"A numptie! A git! Has a pair of bollocks the size of - "

"George, use your words, please?"

George shifted his head towards her. "He's difficult. He's always bossing me around, kicking Melinoe out of his rooms, locking himself up for days at a time. And he eats all the chickens! _All of them!"_

Catherine glanced sideways at him. "Well, you do work for him."

"My mother works for him," he corrected her. "I was brought along for the ride when he moved here."

"How long have you been here?" she inquired.

"Ten years, almost," he answered, scratching Melinoe behind the ears.

Catherine blinked. He didn't look more than eight years old. "But, then...how old are you?"

"Sixteen."

"_**WHAT?!"**_ He sprung off the floor for a moment, hitting his head a bit. "But, you're so sma - "

He whipped his head to face her, glowering menacingly.

"...aaaaaaart for your age," she amended. His eyebrows flattened over his eyes and he frowned. Catherine pursed her lips. She suddenly moved over to the window. "Oh, look! Isn't it a...euh...lovely day outside?"

George stood up and peeked beside her. He barely reached her shoulders. "It's gray and the leaves on the trees are on the ground. Beautiful, indeed."

Catherine huffed. "I'm trying to find some sort of positive to my situation." A few snowflakes fell onto the windowpane. "Here I am, in the middle of the woods, no idea where I'm going or what I'm doing, and no one knows where I am!"

She watched each tiny crystal fall onto the glass creating a sort of diamond. As the final one fell, she noticed something in the center. She rubbed the mist from the glass and peered outside. Amidst the gray and white was green. A garden, camouflaged by white roses sat in the center of a courtyard with a tall, iron fence built along the stone walls of the house. She leaned closer until her face was pressed to the glass.

"It's beautiful."

"What? The rose garden? That's the master's garden."

"How do they grow in winter?" she asked.

George stood on his toes to see. "They're magic roses."

She laughed. "Alright, how do they really grow?"

"No, I'm serious. They are magic. The master goes in there and uses them all the time!"

"Uses them how?"

George went quiet, thinking for a moment. "I actually don't know. But he goes out there almost every night."

"Well, the next time I see him, I'll ask about it."

* * *

The Lord sat at his vanity while Mrs. Townsend adjusted his cravat, humming. She had wanted him to look "presentable" for when he met his guest. He didn't see much reason anymore. Whether or not he wore fine clothing wouldn't matter if she found out what he was. He had shaved minutes before, even combing his hair a bit before he allowed Mrs. Townsend to poke and prod him. For now, she had gone off to search through some drawers.

His hand lingered over the items on his vanity. A comb, much like the one he'd seen the girl playing with, lay by the mirror. He scooped it into his hand. What was so entertaining about plucking a comb? He checked over his shoulder, sure Mrs. Townsend wasn't watching, and hesitantly plucked one of the spines. He plucked another, and one on the opposite side. _C, E, A, F. _

He chuckled. It was surprisingly satisfying.

"Sir?"

The comb flew out of his hand and onto the floor. "What? Nothing! Nothing! I wasn't doing anything! No!"

She smiled coyly and went back to the drawers. The Lord released the breath he was holding. He couldn't go back to that. There was no hope for it. He reached back and pulled his red scarf around his neck. It would hide any bloodstains he would inevitably make.

"No, no, no!" Mrs. Townsend cried, yanking the scarf off his neck. "I wish you'd throw this moth-eaten thing away!"

He sneered at her, but she pressed his back to the chair. She pulled back his hair a bit, setting a wig on his head.

"Yes?"

The Lord wrinkled his nose.

"Or no."

She removed the wig, thankfully not leaving any powdery residue. She placed a three-cornered hat on his head. "What do you think of this one?" Stylish, but not for him. He shook his head. "You're right. No need to be bourgeoisie." She removed the hat and went back to the drawers.

He picked up the comb again and plucked an A note. He had to remind himself that he was done with his past life, and he could never go back. He'd spent nearly a decade trying to forget his childhood memories, to forget everything that he'd enjoyed in that life. It wouldn't matter. He was a monster, and that was all that mattered anymore.

Mrs. Townsend cleared her throat, bidding him to lean forward. She wrapped a deep maroon cloak around his shoulders, clasping it together at his left shoulder. She then pulled a few strands of hair from his bonds and let them fall over his face.

"There!" she said proudly. "Very handsome."

He gazed at himself in the mirror. He looked presentable at least. His thin face looked a bit haggard from the previous night, and the dark circles under his eyes gave him a sort of undead look. But, it was good enough. He refused to wear powders and paints like the rest of the stuffy nobles did.

A crawling sensation in his sleeve startled him. He pulled back his sleeve. The hair on his arm was thickening, growing faster than last time! He sprang from his chair, but, in doing so, knocked him backwards as his knees hit the arm. He fell back into the sofa lounge by the wall, dislodging something from the wall and into his chest.

Mrs. Townsend looked up in concern. "Are you alright?!"

The Lord sat up to collect himself, letting the item slide into his lap. He turned it over, holding the slender neck in his right hand. He never thought he'd touch this again. He ran his fingers over the guitar strings, involuntarily releasing a small vibrato from his chest.

"Oh, your guitar!"

The Lord jumped a bit, grabbing the guitar before it could fall on the floor.

"You should play it for her. I'm sure she would love to - "

"NO!" he snapped. "No, no, I can't. You know I don't play anymore. I can't go back to that life."

She rested her hand on his shoulder. "Why not, dear?"

"Because I'm a monster!" he shouted. He felt her hand quickly leave his shoulder. He held his eyes shut, trying to hold back the pain in his head, in his hands. He was turning again. She needed to leave, before he lost control! He clenched his fist.

"_Pl-Please...leave me. I'll be...I'll b-be fine!"_

Her footsteps slowing receded until he could no longer hear them, and the door shutting signaled him that she was gone. He opened his eyes and flew into his sacred space, slamming the door behind him.

* * *

Catherine opened the door to the dining hall, timidly peeking in to see if anyone was there. It was empty.

_So much for a formal introduction, _she thought.

But, at least she had a few moments to collect herself before she could meet her mysterious host. Her arm was still wrapped in a bandage, but it was covered by her thick sleeves, and she could use her right hand just as well as her left. She pulled out the decorated chair and sat down, pulling at her skirts to fit in all the way. It wasn't her fault she was used to hand-carved stools and cotton dresses.

She looked down at the china and silverware - _gold_ware - on the table. So many forks and spoons! Which one was for the soup? Her hand wavered over the spoons, unsure where to start. She gave up and simply place her serviette on her lap.

_So, what do I say first? "Hello, my name is - " No, too informal. "Good evening, my Lord. My name is - " _She shook her head. _Oh, why is this so important? I'll only be here for a few days, and then, to Paris! Right?_

The doors creaked open behind her. She stiffened, straightening her back as her aunt often told her to do. Heavy footsteps approached the table. Catherine inhaled, trying to remain stoic. The footsteps stopped beside her. She slowly looked up to greet her host.

She blinked in slight surprise. He was incredibly handsome! He was tall, his skin as pale as alabaster, his hair raven black. His face was thin, as if he hadn't eaten for days. Dark circles hung under his eyes. His eyes...a glittering mix of seafoam and mint, with flecks of ocean blue around the edge of his iris. It was almost godlike, but painful to watch.

Realizing she'd been staring at him with her mouth open, she quickly ducked her head and stuttered an apology. He examined her for another moment before wordlessly moving over to his side of the table. He reached over and began eating.

Catherine internally moaned at having to do this in front of him. It wasn't her fault by any means, but it was nonetheless embarrassing. Her hand continued to wave over the spoons for a good minute before she decided she'd simply take a random spoon.

"You go from the outside in."

Her head snapped up. "Euh...I'm sorry. What did you say?"

His gaze never faltered from his meal, but he spoke. "You use the tableware from the outside in."

"Oh," she said. "Thank you."

After finally able to eat her soup, she glanced up at him. His eyes were hypnotic, luring her in. It made her nervous.

"So..." she started anxiously. "You're the owner of this chateau?"

"I suppose," he grunted.

"It must be wonderful to live in such a lovely place." He glanced up at her, expressionless. "...and it must be wonderful to have company like Mrs. Townsend and her son."

He stirred through his soup. "Mrs. Townsend is alright. She cooks my meals, cleans my rooms, tells me to get out of bed."

Catherine giggled, but stopped when she met his serious gaze.

"Though, it has been some time since I've ventured from my estate," he added. "Tell me, mademoiselle..."

"DeCiel," she answered. "Catherine DeCiel."

"Mademoiselle DeCiel, what has the world been around to without me in it?"

Unsure of how to answer, she thought back to Chastel. What was going on there that was different from a few years ago?

"Euh...famine has become a growing issue."

"Oh?"

She nodded. "Oui. Many villages have to rely on livestock in my region. And, with little money to come by...Oh, forgive me for being impolite, but I don't know your name, monsieur!"

He shifted onto his elbows. "My name means nothing to me anymore. You may simply call me "My Lord"."

Her hand gripped her skirts. "Well, I insist on being called Catherine. Mademoiselle DeCiel is quite the mouthful."

"I will be calling you whatever I please, mademoiselle," he barked. "But, I suppose you are right."

She lifted the spoon to her mouth and took a small sip. "I'm very sorry for intruding on your house, my Lord. I hope to leave as soon as possible."

"I'm afraid that won't be for few weeks," he huffed. He turned to the window, and she followed his gaze. The snow was falling by the fistful. "The snow comes very heavily this time of year."

She set the spoon aside. "That reminds me. I noticed your garden from my window. I was wondering - "

"You are not allowed anywhere near it!" His eyes were sharp, piercing into her intensely.

"I wasn't going to ask that!" she said, her hands raised defensively. "I was wondering how you manage to keep them alive during frosts like this."

He pinched the bridge of his nose, holding his eyes shut. "They are not ordinary roses, mademoiselle. They are roses only the angels can conjure. Should you wish, they can grant you your greatest desire."

She squinted at him.

"They protect this chateau," he said simply. "They do as I command."

"But, they're just flowers," she reasoned.

"Trust me, mademoiselle. You must not take anything in this house for granted. You might end up killed one day."

She blinked. "Excuse me?! Is that some sort of threat?"

"Mademoiselle - "

"My name is Catherine."

"Mademoiselle, please. I do not wish to harm you, but if you find yourself wandering, you could end up like the infamous cat." He clenched and unclenched his fist. "And what I would do to be rid of that cat!"

She abruptly stood. "Alright, you can't sit there and throw suspicious words at me like they don't affect me."

"Sit down, you're being hysterical!" he ordered.

"No!" she said firmly. "No, I won't stand for that. I wanted to meet you to possibly feel a bit of satisfaction, but all I am is more confused. Who are you?! What is this place?! Are you planning to murder me?! You might as well answer me if it doesn't mean anything to you."

He rose from his seat, his head lowered. She froze, but her face remained firm.

"You're too clever, mademoiselle." He looked up at her, half a smile on his face. "Do you think you're some righteous angel? Do you think you have the courage and strength to face everything in your path, even if you don't know if it's right or wrong?"

She sighed. "I'm not an angel. I'm simply Catherine. I'm the daughter of the late woodsman who lives in the mill, and I am a singer."

His demeanor fell, and his skin began to turn an ashen gray. "What did you say?"

"I am a singer?"

He shook his head, gripping his cloak in one hand. "I am sorry, mademoiselle, but I do not allow music in my house."

Her mouth fell open, and she had to repress a laugh. "You're joking, right? You can't forbid music."

"I can and I have!" he snapped.

Her brow furrowed over her eyes. "To forbid music would be to forbid sound itself. You can't stop it."

He flung the cloak around his shoulders and appeared swiftly before her. "There are many things I have been able to stop." He started towards the door.

"But, not this!" she insisted.

"That is quite enough, mademoiselle! Goodnight!" He reached for the door handle.

_"I don't know, don't know  
__So, don't ask me why  
__That's how we are,  
__La Seine and I_

_That's how we love,  
La Seine and I."_

* * *

His hand hovered over the handle.

That song. He hadn't heard it in years. It couldn't be! How did she know it? And, how was she able to sing it more beautifully than he ever could? He slowly peered over his shoulder to look at her. She stood tall, her expression fearful but also pleading. Her hazel eyes bore into his like embers. Hot embers that singed his skin. Was she truly and angel, then? If she had the voice of one -

NO! He could never go back. That life was dead, dead to him! He wasn't sure if he could still carry a tune. His hand finally found the handle.

"Goodnight...Angel."


	7. Un Monstre a Paris

Catherine stood incredulously as he began to retreat.

"Wait! Don't leave!" she begged. "Wait!"

The door closed behind him, leaving her there alone and confused.

"WHAT JUST HAPPENED?!"

The door opened again, and for a moment, she thought he'd returned. George peeked his head in. "Is he gone?"

Catherine groaned.

"I can come back later."

"No, no! It's not you." She hauled up her skirts and sat back down. "I see what you meant about your master being difficult."

George appeared on the other side of the table where the Lord had been seated. "Well, at least his eating patterns haven't changed." He picked up the soup bowl and began to sip it from its edge.

"I thought you said he ate all the chickens."

"I did. But he rarely eats vegetables like this. Oh well." He gulped it down. "More for Georgie!"

Catherine sighed, playing with her spoons on the table. "He said he can forbid music."

"Oh, that's not true," George said, scooping out the chunks at the bottom.

"_Merci! _If he wants to forbid music, he might as well go deaf. Why does he hate it so much, anyway?"

George glanced around the room before crawling under the table. She yelped when his head popped up between her legs.

"You didn't hear this from me, but before he moved here, he loved music. Composed entire symphonies himself. He'd showcase it to the world, by which I mean the confines of Paris and sometimes Marseilles."

"Well, what happened?"

"Something went sour around ten years ago. Real personal things. He never wants to talk about it. Last time I asked, he told me he shouted something in French I couldn't understand." He glanced at the ceiling. "Although, he does that a lot."

She bit her lip nervously.

"Can you sing, Miss Catherine?" he asked.

She smiled and nodded. "I sang at the music hall in my village to earn money. It wasn't good pay, but it was better than anywhere else. And I loved doing it."

He hopped onto her lap. "Well, don't be shy. Make pretty music."

Her heart burst with his sweet request, and she threw her arms around him. "Oh, _petit doux __garçon, je t'aime tellement!"_

He wiggled. "No! NO, NOT AGAIN! NOT AGAIN!"

* * *

The pool shone white as the Lord shut the doors to his private space. How dare that girl?! How dare she accuse him so! He was gracious enough not to throw her out. What was her problem with him? He whirled his cloak as he turned and knelt by the pool.

"Show me the girl!" he ordered.

The pool rippled, but instead of the girl's image, he found the witch! He sprang back on his feet, a low growl escaping his chest. She stared at him blankly, tossing her long blonde hair over her shoulder.

_"Are you trying to seal your own fate?"_ Her voice echoed throughout the chamber. "_This was your chance to befriend her, charm her even. All you've done is confuse the poor thing."_

"Poor thing?! The wench brought an axe on her belt!"

The witch crossed her arms. "_Can you honestly blame her? Being out in the woods with nowhere else to go, surrounded by strange people, and at risk to wild animals - "_

"Shut up!" he barked. "This is your fault. You did this to me, and now I must face the consequences!"

_"My dear, sweet, stupid Lord. You've brought this on yourself."_

"STOP IT!"

"_Your curse is progressing. It won't be long before you begin to become the beast permanently."_

"No! I've staved it off this long. I can continue to do so!"

She shook her head. "_No, you can't. You resign to your own misery, yet you cannot accept that you cannot fight the monster within you."_

"No! _BE QUIET!_"

"_Only a few more full moons, and your transformation is permanent."_

"**_I SAID BE QUIEEET!" _**

A swipe of his hand to the water shattered the connection. Her image faded, leaving his own grim reflection in the water. His eyes were that horrid, beastly yellow he'd come to fear. He covered his face and sunk to his knees in despair. He didn't want to believe it, but the witch was right. The transformations were starting to recur of their own accord, and he'd destroyed the only room able to contain him months ago. He had to repair it!

He gripped his hair. "_Show me the girl."_

The pool rippled again, and this time showed her form. He had been so awestruck when he saw her in the dining room. The dress she had worn seemed to hug every curve and her hair was as shiny as copper. She allured him.

She stood in front of George and the cat, her arms gracefully waving in front of her. She was singing so angelically, it - she was singing! He spun from where he knelt and flew towards the eastern wing. He flung the door open. The girl gasped, her hands over her mouth. George held the cat to his chest.

The Lord stared at her, trying to steady his rapid-beating heart. She looked so vulnerable, but he could see in her eyes she was not afraid. She lowered her hands to her side.

"Is something the matter, my Lord?" she asked. "You startled me."

"And why is that?" he questioned.

"Because you threw open the door like a maniac?" she guessed.

He clenched his fist. "Did you not hear my exact words this evening? Did you, by chance, forget my one, simple order?"

She shook her head. "No. I remember. I just don't care."

Anger rose to his head. "_I beg your pardon?"_

His fury grew when he saw she was unfazed. "You can't stop me from singing. You don't have to like it, so I've tried to distant myself."

"Insolent girl! I see everything in this chateau!"

She knitted her brow. "What?"

He shook his head. "That doesn't matter. From now until you leave, you may not utter a single tune. Understood?"

"No!" she said firmly.

"Yes!" He marched closer to her. "It's not a request. It's an order!"

"Well, I apologize then." She took a step back. "But those orders aren't quite sound."

He raised his hand to strike her. George gasped, and the Lord swung his hand. He gasped as well when his hand halted in hers. Her slender fingers held his wrist so strongly, it almost impressed him. She pierced her eyes through his.

_"You have no right to say what you've said, and you certainly have no right to touch me!"_

She threw his hand back to his side, storming out of the side room. The Lord glanced at George. He glared and shook his head. Scooping up the cat, he followed after the girl.

* * *

The snow fell more furiously as night fell. Catherine had changed into a nightgown and untied her hair, moving over to the window to stare at the rose garden. Why did she bother staying? Surely she could leave, take a horse and some supplies, and get out of there! What was stopping her? Perhaps it was that creature in the woods, still out there on the prowl. The cold conditions didn't help either.

Or was it because she didn't want to go to Paris after all?

She sunk to her knees. What had she been thinking? Running away to Paris so she could fulfill her lifelong dream, all so she could escape a marriage she didn't want? She could have been killed out there. Even if she had made it to Paris, chances were that her life would be much worse. Living as a nanny or a scullery maid, or worse. She thought back to Chastel. Her aunt must have been worried sick.

She pulled her knees from under her and brought them to her chin.

* * *

The Lord stared at the sad scene through his pool. He had caused this. But, what did it matter? She could never come to love him anyway. Her image faded, but the ripples began again. The witch's face frowned at him through the water. He turned and faced the door.

_"Oh, that's just childish."_

"What do you want from me? Did you expect her to run to me with open arms?!"

_"You didn't give her a chance. She clearly tried to be polite with you, but you were too stubborn in your ways."_

"She disobeyed the one rule I gave her."

"_As petty as it is."_

"I will not be reminded of a life I can never live again!" He clenched his fist, his nails breaking the skin of his palms a bit. He slowly released his grip. "I can't live a lie, Enchantress. What good would blind hope do for me now when another full moon could kill me?"

She was silent for a long while, and for a moment he thought she'd gone. He turned, but she was still there. She held her hands together, almost praying or begging.

_"You are already living a lie, dear Lord. You've made all this effort to forget your past life, your own name, when you know you must always remember. Your body may not have aged, but your mind must progress to move forward."_

"Are you implying that you _want _me to break this curse?"

She chuckled, shaking her head. "_My dear boy, do you really take me for a heartless monster?"_

The Lord sighed, slowly rolling up his sleeve. Thin red marks lined his wrist from where she had grabbed him. He had no right to touch her. He had no right to be around her. He should have left it alone. He couldn't face her again after that. Even if she never knew of his affliction, she'd never see him as anything but a monster.

He pulled back his sleeve and made for the door.

_"Where are you going?!"_

He closed the doors behind him, ignoring the beautiful witch. He needed some time to think things over. He grabbed his scarf from the chair and wrapped it around his neck. He also grabbed a broad hat from a stand in the corner before making his way to the garden.

* * *

Catherine sat underneath the window for hours. Thought the bed was comfortable and warm, she could not sleep. The look in his eyes, how it turned from anger to shock; it haunted her. The green of his iris seemed to shift in hue for a brief moment, but it was a trick of the light. She was sure of it. There was nothing magic about this house. Magic didn't exist.

The snow pounded on her window, on the pane below it. Some struck the metal bars on the fence, creating a ring that could have been a A flat. Or maybe just an A. She couldn't tell. She held her own hands in front of her, hugging her knees and waiting for the night to pass.

"..._I..."_

She looked up from her nightgown. She had heard something from outside, but couldn't be sure.

"_I..."_

It came again. She pressed her ear to the wall, needing to convince herself that she was hearing correctly. Her eyes grew wide as a voice rose from the garden below her.

_"...I hide my light,  
__Inside a cloak of night..."_

She stood up, peeking behind the curtain. A figure knelt by a small red rose bush in the center. She had sworn they were white last she saw them.

"_Beneath the red scarf  
And a chapeaux."_

He lifted his head, startling her into closing the curtains. But she peeked back again, intrigued by his angelic voice. The roses began to bloom, emitting a glowing light from the center of their petals. A soft crescendo of violins and cellos filled her ears.

"_The pearl of my heart  
locked within a shell,  
Too afraid to let it go.  
To let it show._

_And all the headlines read  
for all the world to see_

_A monster in Paris._

_I fall apart..."_

The violins crescendoed, glowing lights surrounding the figure.

"_I fall apart...  
Apparently, I did appear  
beneath the light.  
Yes, it was me._

_A monster in Paris."_

The figure stood, a satchel hanging from his shoulder. His broad hat covered his face with a scarf pulled up to his chin. He stroked one of the roses' soft petals.

"_I hide my pain  
inside a melody,  
as if the notes I sing  
will set me free._

_I keep all my dreams  
under a lock and key.  
I'm so afraid that they will fly  
away from me_

_A monster in Paris..._

_A monster in Paris..._

_A monster in Paris..."_

He lowered his head in shame, taking the beautiful rose in his fingers. Snow gathered on his head and shoulders. The wind howled at his back, making him shiver and the gate slam shut. He held his arms.

He slowly looked up in bewilderment. Catherine simply stood holding an umbrella over his head. She waited for a reprimanding, but his face was gentle. Almost, passive. She pulled her robe around her more tightly.

"I'm not asking for your favor," she said. "You do not have to like me. But, may I at least know your name?"

He blinked a bit, snow falling from his shoulders as he shifted. He opened his mouth.

"_Matthieu."_

She smiled, liking the sound of the word. She held out the umbrella to him. "You wouldn't want to catch your death out here."

He slowly accepted the umbrella. "_Thank you..."_

She nodded, smiling for him again, and stepped back inside to finally get some sleep.

* * *

_**"A Monster in Paris" by -M- and Sean Lennon**_


	8. Il s'appelle Matthieu

Catherine woke to a knock at her door. Not exactly ready to get up yet, she pulled the pillow over her head and groaned. The door kept rattling, so she finally dragged herself out of bed and pulled her robe around her. Groggily, she opened the door.

"Mmm...what?"

No one was there.

"_Ahem!"_

She looked down. George stood with two trays in his hands. "Morning, Catherine."

She stooped down and took one of them. "_Bonjour, _George. Isn't it a bit early for breakfast?"

"All the best things must begin before six AM. Oh!" He held up the second tray to her. "Do you think you could send this to the master? I have my hands tied at the moment." A crash and a meow from down the hall confirmed his statement. "If anything is broken, please don't tell him!"

Before she could utter a word, he dashed off towards the commotion. Catherine shut the door behind her, not sure if it was the earliness or the boy's request that made her head ache. Her interactions with her host had been disastrous, and she couldn't be sure if the previous night's events were a dream. Well, if George was occupied, and his mother was surely busy, she supposed quickly dropping off his meal wouldn't hurt. She didn't have to say anything to him.

She set the food on her bed and dressed into a comfortable green dress, careful of her bandaged arm. She tied her hair back and slipped into some wearable shoes before picking up the trays again. Then, she ventured out of her room.

* * *

An unsettling feeling rose up in Catherine's stomach. She realized she hadn't had a proper look at the chateau. It was beautiful from the outside. But inside, dust and cobwebs hung everywhere. The paintings on the walls were chipped and cracked, the portraits staring at her as she walked past. Mirrors placed on walls or mantlepieces were shattered. She wandered down a corridor that was barely lit and entered the western wing of the chateau.

This area only had three doors. Two large ones on either side - one bronze and one silver - facing each other. The third stood in front of her, smaller but just as ornate and decorated in gold. She guessed this was the right place. Setting both trays on one arm, she knocked on the gold door.

"_Come in! Come in!" _

She pushed the door open slowly. The room was pitch black, save for the fireplace to the left. A chair and a table were shown in the dim light, and the Lord - Matthieu? - slumped in the armchair. He turned his head.

Catherine cleared her throat. "I was told to send you breakfast."

He rubbed his eyes. "I'm sorry, who are you again?"

She blinked. He had forgotten her entirely since yesterday? He ran his fingers through his hair.

"F-Forgive me, I don't fare well in the mornings. Come in, Angel."

She tentatively stepped into the room, her hip bumping into what felt like a corner as she approached him. She set the tray on his table, bowing her head before turning back to leave.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"Well, I thought - "

"Don't trouble yourself with that long walk back. You've made it this far." She narrowed her eyes. He reached beside him, pulling up a small umbrella. "I wanted to return this to you."

So it wasn't a dream after all! She returned to the table and received the umbrella. "Thank you."

He paused. "...You're welcome."

He was being very gentlemanly all of a sudden. Was this some sort of trick? She set her tray back on his table, eying him suspiciously. Yesterday he'd hated music, but a few hours earlier, he'd sung like a nightingale. It didn't make sense. What changed in that span of time?

She had so many questions, but all she managed was: "I'm so confused."

He waved his arm towards the chair behind her, something she knew hadn't been there before. "Sit. I can explain."

She felt for the chair behind her, not wanting to keep her eyes off him. Her feet slipped and she landed on her rear end rather clumsily. She groaned and crawled into the chair. "You wouldn't mind if I had a bit of light, would you?" she asked. "The darkness is putting a strain on my eyes."

He glanced to his right, then back at her. "You may. We're facing west."

She rose from her chair and held her hands in front of her. Feeling something velvety under her fingers, she grabbed the fabric and pulled the apart, a bit of reflected sunlight from the icicles streaming in. She heard him grunt, and turned to find him shielding his eyes. She drew them back a bit, allowing him some relief. She returned to her seat without complication. She poured some coffee into her cup.

"I don't understand. Last night, you made it clear that you hated me."

He poured himself his own cup. "I do not hate you, Mademoiselle."

"You tried to strike me!"

He stared at his cup in guilt. "I admit that was my intent, but it wasn't your fault. Music just brings back memories I'd rather forget. You couldn't have known, and I doubt you would have cared."

"Well, I tried to sing somewhere you wouldn't hear. You know that old phrase "if a tree falls in the woods and no one's around to hear it, does it even make a sound"?"

He knitted his brow, setting his cup aside. "No, I'm afraid I haven't."

Catherine chuckled. "A bit of tree humor."

He stared at her blankly. She cleared her throat.

"But, I do have one question - well, two or three actually. First, if you hate music so much, why were you singing last night? Out in the garden?"

"I'm afraid that answer is rather complicated," he replied, sipping his coffee.

"I have time," Catherine shrugged. "Until the snow melts."

He bit his lip. "When you sang _La Seine, _something changed. You see...I was there when that song was written, when it was presented to the world. Perhaps not in the same tempo or key, but I know it well. And...I think it all simply came out last night. All my anger."

She shifted in her seat. This couldn't be real. His personality had shifted so drastically, it unsettled her. She didn't trust it. She couldn't trust him so easily after what had happened the day before.

"What were you angry about?" she asked.

He shook his head. "That I would rather not speak about." She nodded. "So, what is your second question?"

"What was going on with those roses?!" she blurted out. "Why do they change color and light up and ... well, do they mimic an orchestra?"

He half-smiled and leaned back in his chair. "I did tell you they do as I command. They were "gifted" to me when I arrived here. They choose a master to serve under, seeing their deepest desires, and they grant them. Whether it be menial tasks such as a song or large ones like relocating this entire house."

"Can it make the snow melt?" she asked.

He hesitated. "No."

"You hesitated."

"No, I didn't."

"I think you did."

"Well, if I did, then it was not intentional. The roses can grant wishes, but they can't rewrite reality. As much as I wish they could..."

He sipped his coffee again. Catherine took a bite of eggs. "Is there any way I could learn to use the roses?"

"You can't learn how to use them. They have to allow you to use them."

She took another bite. "You say that as if they have a mind of their own."

"I would think they do." He took a small vial from his pocket and poured it into his coffee. "Magic is a confusing thing, and one I would have rather stayed away from."

"Then why do you associate with it?" she asked.

He lifted the cup to his mouth and drank the beverage straight down. He cleared his throat. "I'm afraid that's not for me to say."

"Why not?" she probed.

"Because it's dangerous," he said simply. "Magic is dangerous, especially around here. For your own safety, I suggest you do..._try _to do as I say."

Her head fell into her hand. "My Lord, I want to believe you. I don't know if I want to trust you yet, but I want to believe you. But, I can't when I don't understand. You've been confusing me since before we meet. I still don't know where I am, or who you are."

He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "_Je m'appelle Matthieu Rossignol, le seigneur de La Maison du Loup._"

"...Catherine DeCiel. Just Catherine DeCiel."

She placed her fork on his plate. "Well, it was lovely to finally have a formal introduction. I think I'll...find George perhaps? Keep him out of trouble?"

He leaned back, resting his arms. "Heh...someone has to, I suppose."

She rose from her seat and began to leave. She stopped. "One more question."

"If you wish."

"Where do the other doors go to?"

She sensed his body tense. His hand gripped the arm. "They are for containment...for protection..."

She turned back to him slowly, fearful he might revert back to how he was last night. "Protection from whom?"

He let out a shaking breath. _"From the beast." _

She stepped back, as if threatened by him. She repeated, "The beast."

"Mademoiselle, I can bear no more - "

"No more questions," she finished. He turned to face her, his brow lowered. "I think I understand enough. If it is a danger, then you must do whatever it takes. I only hope you've managed to keep it there."

Fear lit up in his face. "What do you mean?!"

She rolled up her sleeve and unwound half her bandage, revealing her wound. "Why do you think I landed here?"

He gasped, a look of horror on his face. She reapplied her bandage and pulled her sleeve back into place. The two said nothing else, so Catherine stepped out of his room. She glanced down either end of the hall. Which door held the beast? She feared to find out. But she noticed the silver one was caved, exposing part of the room. She peered through the crack. The room was completely covered in silver. Bars replaced glass on the windows, snow flying in freely.

_The beast must be in the other room, _she reasoned.

How could he be brave enough to live next to a monster? It explained the comments about being killed for looking too deeply. She ran from the corridor and back up the stairs to the eastern wing, wanting as much distance between her and the beast as possible.

* * *

The bronze door flew open, an icy breeze washing over Matthieu. He flung off the tattered curtains and began his frantic search. He overturned his chair and ripped the rug from the floor. Furniture was thrown to the opposite end of the room. He had to find it! He had to find the opening! He yanked the tapestries from the wall, shredding one right down the middle.

He found the hole.

It had been dug out months ago, it seemed. It led from the room, straight through the brick and stone, and out into the snow. He slid down the hole, following the tunnel until he reached daylight. Snow had piled over the paw prints, but it dd nothing to hide the gaping hole in the fence. He raked his hair back over his head, his heart pounding in fear. The bronze hadn't been enough to hold him. He should have known! He'd destroyed too many attic rooms in his earlier years when he resorted to chaining himself.

He raced back inside, shaking the snow from his cloak. His hands flew to his hair again. How could he have let this happen?! Who knows how many lives were lost because of him?! His heart had dropped to his stomach when he saw her wounded arm. He'd done that! He'd let that happen to her! She had every right to want to leave. If it were up to him, he'd have her leave immediately for her own safety. Or, because he couldn't bear to have any more reminders?

He wanted to believe it was for her safety. She'd been nothing but kind to him and only became angry or defensive when she deserved to be. When she sang, he remembered the painful memory of that night. The night his life ended. But, it was so beautiful. He had to see if he remembered how the music inside him worked. He didn't know if it was curiosity or a yearning buried within him for so long. But, he sang and she heard.

Really, she could leave whenever she wished. It wasn't advisable. But, even in these conditions, the trek to the nearest village wasn't too perilous. Perhaps there was a way to break the curse if he kept her here. He had no other choice if he was going to survive. And she was strong! She must have been strong enough to survive the attack with only minor injuries.

But none of it boded well for anyone with the hole in the bronze room. "I've unleashed a monster onto the world."


	9. Un Elixir du Jour

**_Four days later..._**

Catherine had seen only glimpses of Matthieu since they'd had their meal together. A nod to each other in the hall or a quick glance was the most she saw. A pair of thick gloves were on his hands, covered in stains and dust. He must have been repairing the silver room.

She was sitting in the foyer, a journal in hand, with George in front of her with a presentation for her, but he was a bit distracted.

"_And here," _Catherine narrated. _"documented for the first time in recorded history, the most fearsome creature in the world, Le Petit Loup. Facing his natural enemy: the duck-embroidered blanket."_

George threw the blanket from his head, ripping it, and finally stomping on it. "WHERE ARE YOU NOW, DUCKY BLANKET?!"

"Why did you send for me again?" she asked.

"Oh, right. Are you writing this down?"

Catherine scribbled on her paper with a quill. "Every word."

"Good!" he cleared his throat dramatically. "Catherine the Village Angel! You've been so obsessed with those roses that you've forgotten an important factor." He yanked the curtain from his pile of boxes, exhibits, and drawings. "_Demonology!"_

"Really!"

He nodded. "Oh, yes! Magic creatures roam this forest, evidenced by that hideous gash in your arm. Now, these magic creatures, commonly known as demons, manifest from some sort of illness, possession, or curse."

"_And cute, little hands~"_

George glanced at his small hands, sighing. "Yes. And cute, little hands." He continued. "The most feared and ferocious is the _Barghest__!_ A fierce black dog that roams the night with death in its wake."

"_Oooh!_" she exclaimed smoothly. "Quite fierce."

The boy dropped his arms in defeat. "Catherine, I wish you'd take this seriously. This could save your life one day."

"I'm taking this seriously!" she argued, flipping her journal around. "Look at the notes I've recorded."

George stepped closer and examined the notes. "Hmm...and you promise you're not taking advantage of my lack of French?"

Catherine shook her head, hand over her heart as she held out her notes of roses, glowing lights, and his adorable, chubby hands. "On my honor!"

He grumbled. The front door flew open, scattering many of George's drawings and notes. He jumped to retrieve them as Matthieu shut the door. He took off his cloak and shook the snow from it.

"Terrible snowstorm coming," he said briefly. "The windows and doors must be barricaded. George, clean up this mess."

George popped his head up from behind a box. "Mess? _MESS?! _I'll have you know, this is important information! What if a vampire springs out and tries to bite you? You need that neck padding!" He held up a painting of Queen Elizabeth, with her frilly collar. "The Queen knew what she was doing."

Matthieu looked to Catherine, who shrugged. The young lord sighed. "Just make sure everything inside is barricaded. I already boarded the outside."

Catherine glanced back to George, who was leafing through every individual drawing. She crossed her legs underneath her, rubbing her injured arm. George tore off a piece of ribbon and tied it around his own wrist.

"There! Now, we're boo-boo buddies!"

She gasped, clasping her hands over her mouth. "_Oh mon Dieu, je t'aime beaucoup!"_

Matthieu groaned, picking up a few of the scattered papers and putting them back on the box. With Matthieu there, it would be difficult to discuss sensitive topics. But perhaps, she thought, she could ask discreetly.

"So, George? Why is this house called _La Maison du Loup_?"

George opened his mouth but, as she predicted, Matthieu spoke first. "Because of the familial status of the wolf, and the power and pride it has."

"I thought it was because you collect rawhide and eat blue rare meat," George said, making Matthieu frown.

"I do not!"

"Yes, you do," Mrs Townsend argued as she passed with laundry.

"He also coughs up hairballs," George added.

Matthieu rubbed his temples. "_T-Tais-toi, s'il vous plait._ I can't...I've been out there all morning!"

He stumbled towards the western hall, escaping into a parlor room. He peeled off his coat and threw it on the floor, then fell onto the sofa.

He groaned. "_Je suis très fatigue."_

He laid with his eyes closed for a brief moment before opening them again. Catherine knelt inches from his face, her journal and quill in hand.

"Can you answer a few questions about the roses? I'm sure there's a way for me to use them!"

"I already told you, no!"

She rounded the couch, her face appearing to him upside down. "Please? If you tell me about it, I'll never bother you again!"

He rolled onto his side, covering his face with his scarf. "_Sleep now, roses later."_

She huffed while he sank into the cushions. His eyes fell shut, until he heard a jingling. He gasped. "Rawhide!"

He looked up from his scarf. The rawhide bone shook in Catherine's hand, a tiny bell attached to it by a string. He stared at it, hypnotized. He leapt for it, but Catherine tossed it to her other hand. He fell onto the floor.

"If you want it," she said, leaning over him. "You'll have to tell me about the roses."

He blew the scarf out of his eye. "I respect your cunning, but I also hate you for it."

He rose to his feet and shook out his scarf. A few roses fluttered out of the folds, one falling into his hand.

"Now, these roses..._don't make me re...repeat __myself..." _His head nodded, but snapped back up. "These roses were gifted to the master of this chateau. They do not just follow anyone, one must earn the right to have them serve you."

Catherine nodded excitedly, holding out her hands.

"No," he grunted.

"Well, how do you do it?" she asked.

Matthieu rubbed his eyes. "Well, I became master of this house through respect. Though, I only ask of them menial tasks. Such as light."

The rose in his hand opened, a small bead of light appearing in its center. The orb floated out of the flower and in front of her. Just as it appeared, it faded into thin air. Catherine heard George groan.

"YAWN!" he shouted. "Who wants to learn about magic flowers when you could be learning about all the ways an ogre could kill you?!" He held up a drawing. "Look at all those teeth. He's so toothy!"

"But magic can only do so much. The larger the task, the more power it exerts. So, if asked for too much..."

The rose began to glow again, the light magnifying until it became too bright. Catherine covered her eyes until the light dissipated. She looked, and the rose was gone.

"End of lesson, I need to lie down." He popped his back and started back to the couch.

"Wait!" she cried. "That can't be it! Can't you do it one more time?" She held up a dropped rose. "I'll record it in my journal this time!"

He held the rose in two fingers, his eyes half open. Catherine readied her journal.

"One more lesson won't kill you."

He groaned, cupping the rose in his hand. It began to light. "You see, the rose is...it's very...very complex in that..."

The light flickered out as Matthieu slumped to the ground. Catherine and George stared at his unresponsive body.

"Well, what do you know?" George said. "One more lesson _did _kill the master."

Catherine screamed, horrified at what she'd done. George ran out of the room while Catherine rolled Matthieu onto his back. She felt for a pulse.

"I'm back! I'm back!" George rushed back in with Catherine's axe. "We must dispose of the evidence!"

He raised the axe over his head.

"Wait!" Catherine grabbed his wrist. Matthieu's chest rose and fell, softly snoring. She sighed in relief. "Oh, _Dieu merci. _He's only asleep."

George lowered the axe, slapping his hand across Matthieu's face. He still slept. "Yes, he is definitely out cold. Hahaha!" He continued to slap Matthieu mercilessly before Catherine snatched his hand.

"Stop that. We have to bring him to bed."

"I say leave him. He looks funny all spread out on the floor like this. Heheheheh!"

She glared at him. He sighed in defeat.

"I'll grab his arms," she said. "You take his feet."

George hauled up his master's legs. "I always have to take the feet."

She ignored that and lifted Matthieu from under his arms. George gasped at the shift in weight.

"You're strong!"

Catherine strained. "That doesn't mean he's not heavy. Let's get him to bed."

* * *

The two finally dragged Matthieu back into his room. George gasped for air. Catherine adjusted his weight.

"Alright, we set him in bed on the count of three. One..."

"THREE!" George swung Matthieu onto the bed, surprising Catherine into releasing him.

His body flopped awkwardly onto the mattress, but he still slept. Catherine pulled his scarf looser around his neck so he would not choke, and prayed he wouldn't be angry for pushing him to his limit. George peeked over the bed.

"May I slap him one more time?"

Catherine ruffled George's hair. "Let him rest, you little weasel."

She made her way out of Matthieu's room. George smacked his master's face one last time before following his friend back towards the foyer. Catherine cradled a rose in her hand, staring at it.

"Alright, rose. I don't exactly know how to gain your respect. So, if you do have a mind of your own, you must tell me...Tell me!"

George shook his head in disappointment. "You're talking to a flower! I know!" he ran over to his pile, snatching a drawing.

"Maybe you'd be interested in a very fearsome creature indeed?" He unrolled a piece of paper. "The Black Swan! It's much more dangerous than it sounds."

Catherine's face fell. "I'm sorry, George. But I need to concentrate! I need to gain this...flower's respect. I can't believe I said that."

George stomped his foot in frustration. "Why do you want to learn about these roses so badly?!"

"Because!._..Because..._" She lowered her hands. "I have no way of getting out of here. Where I came from, I was about to be forced by my aunt into a marriage I didn't want. I thought, maybe if I learned how to use the roses, they'd get me...where I need to go."

George gazed at her with pity. He sighed, pulling out his own journal. "If I help you with that rose thing, can we continue the lesson?"

She smiled at him sweetly. "_Bien sur. _Of course."

George scribbled onto his paper. "Alright. All that magic business is tricky, but I think I have a theory." He held out his drawing of a bottle and a stick figure. "Every day, I see the master sneak drinks of this elixir. And when he does, he gets a boost of energy. So, that must be where he gains power over the roses."

"So, if I drink that elixir, I could have power over the roses?"

"_Oui!"_ He proclaimed.

She scooped him up and hugged him. "Thank you. But..." she dropped him. "Couldn't there be any negative side effects?"

"We'll have to see."

* * *

The door creaked open slowly. George peeked in, Matthieu still snoring in bed. All he had to do was sneak in, find the elixir, and sneak out without being caught. If he was, the master would kill him. He gently pushed the door open further and tiptoed inside, making sure to avoid the creaking floorboards. He scanned the room for any bottle or liquid that could be of any interest. His eyes landed on the nightstand. A vial of violet liquid sat next to a candle and a brush.

George slowly slinked over, making sure Matthieu was still asleep. He snatched the bottle from the stand. A tag hung from the neck by a string with an inscription:

"_Un Elixir du Jour - "_

The other half was torn off, but he assumed it wasn't important. He shoved the vial into his vest and hauled himself out of there. Matthieu shifted in his bed, gripping the sheets.

* * *

"And you're very sure about this?" Catherine asked as George handed her the vial.

"You want to know how to use those roses, right?" he asked, his arms crossed.

She stared at the elixir tentatively, her hand shaking a bit. She supposed there was no harm in trying. She uncorked the bottle and slowly lifted it to her mouth.

A scream rang through the halls! The vial slipped from her shaking hands, fumbling until it landed and shattered on the ground. The liquid seeped through the cracks of the floorboards. She cried out, shaking her head. The screaming continued.

"That sounded like Matthieu!"

A different scream shook them both.

"Mother!"

The two flew from Catherine's room and followed the shrill yell down to the kitchen. George threw open the door, followed by Catherine, and gasped at the horrifying scene. Mrs. Townsend sprawled on the floor unconscious, a large, thin creature looming over her in the darkness. It glanced at them with glowing yellow eyes and growled. Catherine pulled George behind her, holding out her hand as if to protect them. The creature snarled and ran out the backdoor into the storm. The two ran out just as it crashed into an upstairs window.

"Oh my God!" George cried. "It's the Barghest!"

Catherine held her mouth. "It must be the beast he was containing in the bronze room! It must have escaped!" She glanced down at her friend. "WHY ARE YOU SMILING?!"

George beamed up at her. "Because this could be a teaching moment! You can finally learn how to protect yourself against this kind of thing."

"I can protect myself already," she pressed.

"But magic beasts are different. We'll need to arm ourselves! To the shed!"

* * *

Armed with gloves, an axe, and Melinoe, the two cautiously made their way to Matthieu's room. George pressed his back to the wall beside the gold door, Catherine on the other side. She raised her ask, watching for his signal. George nodded. She kicked the door in and rushed inside. The room was destroyed and Matthieu was gone.

"Oh no!" she ran to his bed. It was covered in slash marks. "George, what do we do?!"

George dropped Melinoe on the floor. "I'll go get my beast books!"

He ran back out of the western wing and into his room, digging out two books. He sprinted back to his master's room, debating which volume to use. If he remembered correctly, it was the older edition that held the right information. He looked up when he reached Matthieu's room once more. Both Catherine and Melinoe were gone.

"They've been barghested!"

A _swoosh _behind him made him turn. He yelled after it, following it up the hall. It was swift, but he pursued it upstairs and towards the northern end. He skidded to a halt. A closet door was left ajar, Catherine's shoe laying on its side in front of it. George picked up the shoe.

"Catherine!"

He sneered, pulling a knife from his back. He stepped into the closet, and searched through the rows of jackets and trinkets. He finally spotted a shadow underneath one of the racks.

"There's nowhere to run - " he flung back the clothes. "Melinoe?"

The cat sat curled up in fear, her ears pointed down.

"Oh, thank goodness you're ali - You scared me to death! Bad Melinoe! Very bad Melinoe!"

The cat hissed, making George frown again. He suddenly blinked. "Wait, so if you were the one who ran into the closet, then what ran past when - "

Melinoe yowled, arching her back. George whipped around. The beast, still shrouded in darkness, growled. Melinoe stalked towards the beast, coming between it and George. George covered his eyes, his beloved cat letting out a yowl and a whimper. He peeked from behind his fingers. Strands of Melinoe's hair fell from the creature's mouth. He backed into the wall, the beast coming closer.

George pointed his knife at it. "You attacked my mother! You took my friends! You ate my cat! I'll...I'll...I'LL LET YOU LIVE IF YOU THROW UP MY FRIENDS!"

The beast roared, swiping its paw at him. He ducked, sliding under the creature's underside. He wiped his face of the unspeakables and ran for it back down the hall. The creature gave chase, sliding on the slick wood but hot on the boy's tail. He tumbled down the stairs and dashed for the west wing. He was about to make for the gold door, but a hand grasped the back of his shirt and pulled him backwards.

Catherine shut the bronze door, covering George's mouth. A shadow cast over the door and slowly disappeared. She let go of the boy.

"Catherine! You're alive!"

"Barely," she admitted. "The beast nearly tackled me when you left, and I lost Melinoe. I'm glad that you - Oh! You found my shoe!" She took to shoe from his hand and lifted her foot to put it back on. A flap on the sole of her foot caught George's eye.

"Hm? What's that?"

He picked the flap off her foot and read the inscription: _" - Eloigne la Malediction."_

He gasped, pulling the tag from the bottle out of his vest. He attached the two pieces. Catherine held them in their fingers and read them in English:

"_An elixir a day keeps the curse at bay."_

George gasped, his hands flying to his hair. "Oh, shit. Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit!"

"George, what does this mean?"

"I was wrong the entire time! That's not a Barghest! That creature is - "

The door pounded behind them, a paw bursting it. The door finally caved, and the creature showed its face. Glowing yellow eyes stared at them ravenously, a red scarf tied securely around its neck.

"_**MATTHIEU?!"**_


	10. Eloigne la Malediction

Catherine stared at the creature before her, slowly backing away with George towards the wall. Matthieu stalked towards them, baring his fangs. He rose up to his hind legs. Catherine pulled George behind her, holding up her hand to defend herself. His paw knocked her hand, but instantly recoiled. She looked up. Smoke hissed from his paw.

George grabbed her hand and ran towards the back of the room. He suddenly fell into the floor by a tapestry, pulling her with him as Matthieu howled in pain. Catherine landed on her knees in the cold tunnel, keeping George in place before he could fall in further. Footsteps stalked the floor from above them. Catherine covered her mouth to mask her breath. She heard the beast's head peek in, sniffing the air for his prey. George trembled in her arms.

Catherine's other hand searched for something, anything, to throw. Her hand fell on a large pebble. She scooped it up and tossed it out of the hole, hearing it clatter behind Matthieu. He roared and turned swiftly to pursue the sound. Catherine peeked to make sure he was gone.

"_Oh mon dieu! _Did you see him?! Did you see his eyes?! What happened to him?!"

George sat curled with his knees to his chin. "Don't you see?! The elixir I gave you doesn't give the master powers. It prevents him from turning into THAT THING! He's turned into a monster, and it's all my fault!"

She knelt down beside him, rose petals flying in from deep within the tunnel.

"I'm sorry, Catherine. I just wanted you to be interested in what I have to say more than what _he _could teach you. I don't have any human friends and, well...no one takes me seriously because of my size. I thought if I helped you, you'd take a little more interest in people like me."

He buried his face in his hands. Catherine sighed. Admittedly, she had been treating him like a child. But he was almost a young man. And she knew what it was like to not be taken seriously. She pulled a quill and some ink from her blouse.

"Let's finish the lesson, then."

He glanced up from his hands.

"Well, Matthieu has turned into some kind of monster, and we need to save him. So, who knows more about monsters and magical beasts than the best teacher in the world?"

He pointed at himself questioningly, and she smiled. He flew into her arms, giggling.

"Alright." He took the quill and grabbed a rose petal, sketching a picture of the beast. "He was large, thin, covered in fur, and lupine like. They tend to be nocturnal, so they're sensitive to light. But creatures of transformative folklore can usually be subdued by silver." He glanced at Catherine's hand. "Your ring!"

She closed her ring in her other hand. "What? No! I - It won't be enough to subdue him."

"Hmm...You're right." He scratched his head. "Wait! The chandelier in the foyer is made of silver. All we have to do is lure him there and cut the rope."

"But how do we keep him under there?"

"What about those rose lights?"

She slumped against the wall. "You saw me. I can't get a flower to ...to like me or something! I'm not the master of this house." She opened her journal, flipping through her notes. "I'm not like Matthieu."

A flew rose petals flew in from down the tunnel again, landing on the page. This was her fault as much as it was George's. If she hadn't been so impulsive, maybe this could have been avoided. She'd wanted to go home so badly, but she didn't even know where she was going. Now, she only wanted to help Matthieu.

She took the petal between her fingers, humming the song she heard him sing. The petal suddenly folded and crumpled. She gasped as it collapsed in on itself and began to glow. It hovered in front of her face.

George stared at it with her. "How did you do that?"

"I-I'm not sure." She cupped her hands under the light. "But it's beautiful."

The realization hit her. "_Oh mon __Dieu! _I did magic! I did magic! I DID - "

"Shh! Shshshh! We can't stop him with something that small!"

Matthieu roared from inside, startling them back into the wall. Catherine held the light to her chest. Maybe one petal wouldn't keep hold of him, but a whole rose might. She released the light.

"I think I have a plan," she told George, holding out her hand. "Will you help me, Boo-Boo Buddy?"

George crossed his arms. "That nickname has grown old. But alright!" He shook her hand.

* * *

Matthieu stalked the upstairs rooms, jumping up to higher ground. He sniffed at the books and papers on the walls, trying to pick up a scent for his prey. Suddenly, something jingled from the doorway.

"What do we have here?" George tossed a rawhide bone in his hand. "Why, damn! It is so raw. And smells like dead mice. Mmm~! Tasty."

Matthieu's eyes fixated on the bone, his pupils dilating. He roared and lunged towards the boy for the bone. George ran for the foyer, jumping over the pile of rose petals. Matthieu slid over the petals, falling onto his side beneath the chandelier. Catherine tossed a petal into the pile. The petals curled and lit up, rising around Matthieu. He screeched and covered his eyes. It wouldn't hold him for long. Catherine spotted the rope to the chandelier across the causeway. She unhooked the axe from her belt.

"I'm sorry, Matthieu! But, it's for your own good!"

She hurled the axe towards the rope. It flipped rapidly in the air before slicing through the rope. Matthieu barely had time to look up before the silver chandelier crashed onto his head.

* * *

Matthieu bolted upright, his hair clinging to his face. The vial of his elixir hung from his mouth, still filled with a bit of the liquid. He reached up to rub his head but found his face was hairy and angled. He looked down at his left hand. They were still clawed.

"AAH!" He took the vial again and drank down the remaining liquid. His face shifted back to its proper form, the hair disappearing. He fell back into the bed and groaned.

"Oh dear!" Mrs. Townsend helped him sit back up. He didn't want to sit up.

"_Wh-What happened?"_ he asked groggily.

"Well, how are you feeling?" she asked.

He moaned. "_I have the worst headache! _And my mouth tastes like roadki - !" His voice lodged. He retched, and he leaned over the other side of the bed to throw up. He opened his eyes and wiped his mouth. The cat lied limp on the floor, covered in stomach fluids, and let out a dazed meow.

Mrs. Townsend patted his back. "Was that all of it?"

"I believe so." He picked up the vial. "I was looking for this."

"Actually!" George approached his bedside. "I found a spare in the drawer."

"George?" he sneered. "_GEORGE?! _You - _you _stole my elixir?! DO you realize what you could have DONE!? _I ought to break EVERY BONE IN YOUR - "_

George waved his hand to shut him up. "Yes, yes! Grind my bones to make your bread. Look!"

He pointed towards the fireplace. Catherine sat with one of the roses in a vase, plucking off its petals and watching as each one curled in on itself and became an orb of light. He gazed in awe.

"_Incroyable..." _he breathed. "How is she doing that?"

George shrugged and shook his head. "I don't know. But she figured it out."

Catherine glanced over at them, smiling at Matthieu. His face flushed. George rubbed his arm guiltily.

"Listen, I made a mistake. And, I'm sorry."

"You had better be!" Matthieu snapped. "Why, I have a long list of disgusting chores for - "

"No!" Catherine stood up and approached the bedside. "This is my fault."

George shook his head frantically to stop her, but she continued.

"I just wanted so badly to get out of here that I didn't look at the consequences, even if whatever I tried did end up working. If you're going to blame anyone for reckless behavior, blame me."

His scowl softened, and he sighed. "I'd be a hypocrite if I said I haven't tried the same." He cradled the vial in his hand as if it were a baby bird. "I suppose I haven't been completely honest either. You see, when I was...younger, I was cursed; cursed, to become a monster under the full moon. Eventually it progressed to every night, and then...I can't relay all the details, but if I don't take my elixir, innocent people could be in danger."

He hung his head in shame. She knew, so now she would leave. No one would be foolish enough to stay in the same house as a lycan. A hand rested on his shoulder. He looked up, expecting Mrs. Townsend.

Catherine held his shoulder. "Are you going to be alright?"

He sat stunned for a moment before answering. "I'll...I'll be fine. Don't worry about me...don't take my elixir again!"

She removed her hand. "Oh trust me, I won't. That was a nightmare. Now, I should dislodge the axe buried in your wall."

"What?"

"It's fine!" George shouted. "Just let us do the cleaning!"

"Get some rest," she sighed, making him blush again. She bent down and scooped up the cat. "Alright, you. Let's get you cleaned up."

The cat meowed again, too weak to move. Catherine shot Matthieu another smile before retreating from the room. He set his hand on his shoulder.

"Well..."

"You heard what she said." Mrs. Townsend grasped his shoulders and gently drew him back into bed. "Get some rest."

He sank into the mattress and closed his eyes. Mrs. Townsend pulled the blankets up to his chest before leaving the room herself. He couldn't sleep right away, however. His mind raced with thoughts of Catherine. How could she be brave enough - or foolish enough - to want to stay? She could have left when he'd fallen asleep earlier that day. But she stayed, and managed to subdue him before he could harm her again. The curse was progressing too quickly, and it was only a matter of time before the elixir would not be able to stave it off. He needed to adjust the formula.


	11. La Seine et Moi

Matthieu dragged a comb through his hair. He'd shaven an hour before, and he made certain his suit wasn't too wrinkled. He leaned on his vanity, staring at his reflection. It had been a week since Catherine had arrived, and yet his emotions were turning back and forth so violently, he felt sick. She was stubborn. She was headstrong, she was disobedient, she was unladylike! And yet she was so enamoring. Her courage, her kindness, her compassion. Not to mention, she'd been able to survive an attack by him twice while he was under the curse. Everything he'd learned told him he should hate this girl, but she continued to amaze him.

He opened the drawer and uncorked a vial of his elixir. He had spent the night adjusting the formula. But it seemed the only solution was a larger dose. He downed the bitter concoction, coughing at the taste. The witch was right; he couldn't stave off the inevitable. But, if he could just get the girl to love him. True love.

He tied his scarf around his neck and proceeded outside of his room. He wandered, staring at the paintings on the walls. He had no idea who owned the chateau previously, but they must have loved their Greek. Depictions of gods and goddesses lined the walls, some drinking and partying while others embraced lovingly. Some were granters of wishes, others punishers to those who sinned. He turned his gaze down as he reached the foyer. The chandelier was on the floor, emitting a burning heat as he walked by,

"Come on!" Grunting came from the causeway above him. Matthieu stepped closer to the stairway to achieve a better view. Catherine had one foot on the wall, her hands gripping an axe that had been embedded into the wall. She struggled to pry it out. "Come on! Stupid! THING!"

"Need some help, Angel?" he offered.

She yelped and released her grip, flying back onto the floor. He rushed up the stairs.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

She rubbed her head. "Y-Yes, yes. I'm alright. I suppose I threw my axe too hard."

He glanced over his shoulder. "You threw that?!"

"Yes, I'm sorry. I had to cut the rope, and I couldn't hold you off long en - "

He shook his head. "That - that doesn't matter." He held out his hand to help her up. She obliged, but he instantly recoiled. His hand burned from where she had touched him.

"Are you alright?!"

He glanced down at her hand. Her ring. Her ring was made of silver.

"_Fine!" _he bit his lip to hold back the pain. She stumbled to her feet, taking his hand to examine it. A thick white patch lined the palm of his hand. Matthieu stared at her as she gingerly held his hand open. He felt his face heat up. How could she allow herself to be so close to him when he'd nearly killed her twice? He hissed in surprise when her ring brushed his fingertips. She tensed in surprise.

She peered at her hand. "It's my ring, isn't it?"

He began to stutter an answer.

"Silver hurts you, doesn't it?" she asked. Her face fell, and she began to slide the ring off. "I can...I can keep it off."

"No!" he protested. "Keep it on! Please. It's probably what's saved your life from me."

She blinked at him in surprise, but slid the ring back on. He sighed internally. If he was thinking honestly, yes, that ring had saved her life more than once. But, his stomach had dropped when she had frowned, when she looked so sad to part with that ring. He couldn't stand it for some reason, and it frustrated him.

He cleared his throat. "You...would you like some assistance with the weapon lodged in my wall?"

"O-Oh! Oh!" she cried, as if she'd forgotten. She rushed over to the axe, gripping the handle. "No, I'm alright. I just need to ..." She yanked, but it wouldn't budge. "Alright, I need help."

He chuckled and came beside her to grasp the axe. They both gave a hard yank, and the axe gave. Catherine stumbled a bit before steadying. "Thank you."

She tucked the axe onto a belt beneath her apron. "I should fetch George. He and I need to put the chandelier back."

Matthieu shook his head, half-smiling. "What do you see in that boy? He's a menace!"

"He may look and act like a child, but I think he just needs a friend. One that doesn't chase mice or drink cream." She hitched up her axe again. "_Alors, _it is good to see you are doing better."

"Oh, euh, yes!" he stammered.

She smiled briefly and hurried down the stairs. As soon as she'd gone, Matthieu fell against the wall, grasping his chest. Idiot, he thought, Idiot! This girl was unbecoming of him! Everything about her should repulse him! Everything about her should be more reason to keep her away. And yet, she tempted him. Whether it was intentional or not, he couldn't stand it.

He wandered across the causeway and down a separate hall. Was this girl some type of witch or a goddess? He shook his head furiously. He was thinking irrationally. She was far too innocent, and if she knew she could leave, she would. She wasn't charming him. She was simply waiting out the storm.

He uninterestedly peered out of the window. The rose garden was buried beneath a powdery blanket of snow, but its residents thrived. The gate to his left opened, two figures entering the area. George threw himself into a snowbank, flailing his arms and legs across the white fluff. Catherine pulled a cloak tighter over her shoulders, laughing at the boy. The cat sat at Catherine's feet, her eyes fixated on each falling snowflake.

_Stupid cat, _he thought.

George packed some snow into a ball and threw it at Catherine, hitting her shoulder. She gasped and threw one back at him. The two engaged into a heated battle until George finally surrendered. Matthieu chuckled.

"Having fun, are they?"

Matthieu started, looking over at Mrs. Townsend. She was spying from the window beside him.

"It is lovely to see George so happy," she sighed. "You should join them."

"Wh-What?! No. Nononono! No." He quickly drew the curtains, well aware he'd been spying on them and smiling like a moron. "I was - I didn't see anything! And, it's snow! Whatever amusement they have is simply childish nonsense."

Mrs. Townsend scoffed. "You don't really believe that, my lord."

"Yes I do!" he affirmed. "Besides, once she realizes she can leave, she will. And...and good riddance!"

She laughed and shook her head. "You don't feel that way. I know you don't."

"I do!"

She set her hand on his shoulder. "You've become rather fond of her, haven't you?"

"I - ..." His train of thought trailed off. He tucked the curtain back a bit. George sat in the snow with the cat on his lap. The two stared at Catherine in awe. She was humming. The roses bloomed, and a beautiful flute melody flowed from the bushes.

_"Elle sort de son lit  
__Tellement sur d'elle_  
_La seine, la seine, la seine_  
_Tellement jolie elle m'ensorcelle_  
_La seine, la seine, la seine_  
_Extralucide la lune est sur_  
_La seine, la seine, la seine_  
_Tu n'es pas saoul_  
_Paris est sous_  
_La seine, la seine, la seine_

_Je ne sais, ne sais, ne sais pas pourquoi  
On s'aime comme ça, la seine et moi  
Je ne sais, ne sais, ne sais pas pourquoi  
On s'aime comme ça la seine et moi"_

Damn her beautiful voice! He could hear how happy it made her to sing. He used to feel the same way. He had felt it in years, not even when he sang out his soul the other night. What was he supposed to do with this innocent angel?

"What are you thinking of?"

Matthieu gripped the curtain. He hated to admit it, but Mrs. Townsend was right.

"I...I've just...I've never felt like this about anyone."

"Felt like what?"

"I'm not sure. Admiration? Infatuation, maybe? She's confusing me, mostly. And I don't think she knows she's doing it." He drew the curtain a bit. "I know I can't allow myself to let her become miserable."

She patted his arm, giving her approval, and began back down the hall. "Do something for her. Something that sparks her interest!"

Matthieu had no time to ask before she disappeared. Something that sparked her interest, eh? Well, she loved to sing, she could wield an axe...that was it. He knew nothing else. It shocked him to realize he knew very little about her. Perhaps he could use what he did know to find out more. He groaned, hurrying back to his chambers. He couldn't believe he was doing this.

* * *

Catherine watched George as he knelt by Melinoe, staring int her eyes and talking to her.

"No. Say "wanker." Wan-ker!"

Melinoe meowed and licked his face. Catherine giggled, fingering her mother's ring. The gate rattled, making her look up. Matthieu closed the gate behind him, his familiar red scarf draped over his cloak. She waved. He half-smiled in return and approached her, brushing off some snow from the bench.

"Should we leave?" she asked.

"What? Why would I want you to leave?!"

She shrugged. "Is there anything you don't want us touching in here? George said only you come in here."

"The roses do what you say," he said simply.

She turned back to watch George speak to the cat. Matthieu stared at where she was looking.

"Is this common?" she asked.

"Oh, he is obsessed with that cat. Treats it like a human being. It's quite creepy."

She giggled. "I don't know. I think it's sweet how he cares about her."

He grimaced. "Angel, there is nothing 'sweet' about that."

He pointed back over to George carrying Melinoe over to a bush and digging a small hole. Catherine looked away quickly. "Well, it fertilizes the soil."

Matthieu raised an eyebrow.

Catherine sighed. "Look, he has no regular friends, so I think it's best not to judge him."

"Are you two talking about me?!" George called over.

Catherine shook her head. "Of course not, George!"

Matthieu chuckled. "I don't know why I let him keep that cat."

Catherine shifted forward. "Why do you hate her so much?"

"The cat?" She nodded. "Well, it's bad enough it wanders the halls and needs to be fed and picked up after. But, the truth is, I'm quite sensitive to them."

"I...think I understand." She didn't, but she felt best not to pry. Matthieu was a fragile soul, and she couldn't bear to break him. "So, what has dragged the dragon from his lair?" She chuckled nervously.

"Oh!" he remembered. "Thank you, for reminding me." He reached into his cloak and pulled out a slender guitar. "I've heard you singing again and...well, i thought I could show you the right way to sing that song."

"The _right _way?" she laughed. "What _right way _is there?"

"Well, the way you sing it might have been how it was taught to you, but I've heard the originals are far better than anything remade."

He stood up, holding the guitar in position. He held his hand over the strings for a few moments, as if afraid of what might happen if he did. She stood up, giving him a reassuring nod. He breathed deeply.

He strummed an upbeat riff. Catherine gasped, surprised. The roses opened up, lights flowing from their centers. Matthieu kept playing, and Catherine thought she might as well.

"_She's resplendent, so confident  
__La Seine, La Seine, La Seine_  
_I realize, I'm hypnotized_  
**_La Seine, La Seine, La Seine."_**

She whirled back to him, realizing he was harmonizing with her. She smiled and continued.

_"I hear the moon singing a tune_  
**_La Seine, La Seine, La Seine_**  
_Is she divine, Is it the wine_  
**_La Seine, La Seine, La Seine_**

**_I don't know, don't know, so don't ask me why_**  
**_That's how we are, La Seine and I_**  
**_I don't know, don't know, so don't ask me why_**  
**_That's how we are, La Seine and I"_**

She spun and held out her hand to him. He shook his head at first, but lurched forward as George shoved him near her. She smiled and nodded for him to continue.

_"I feel alive when I'm beside_  
**_La Seine, La Seine, La Seine_**  
_From this angle like an angel_  
**_La Seine, La Seine, La Seine"_**

He tapped his feet, stepping around her in a manner she'd never seen. And she became well-aware that she'd been flailing her arms and hips around like some sort of exotic dancer. Matthieu set aside his guitar, letting the roses do the work. She looked up at him, and she forgot her silliness.

**_"I don't know, don't know, so don't ask me why  
_****_That's how we are, La Seine and I  
_****_I don't know, don't know, so don't ask me why  
_****_That's how we are, La Seine and I"_**

She began to spin around him. "_Upon the bridge."_

He bowed to her. "_My heart does beat."_

She waved her arm up to the sky. "_Between the waves."_

He outstretched his._ "We will be saved."_

She spun in circles. "_The air we breathe."_

He sighed. _"Can you believe?"_

He gently took her fingertips. She smiled up at him.

**_"Learn to forgive  
Upon the bridge..."_**

Catherine mustered up a shred of confidence to spin him around with her, keeping him at arms-length to protect his toes.

"**_That's how we are,  
La Seine and I.  
_****_That's how we are,  
La Seine and I.  
_****_That's how we love,  
La Seine and I."_****_  
_**

He tapped his feet around him, swirling up some snow. He spun, and finally he bowed to her. She curtsied, laughing as the music died down. She glanced up at him, rising to her feet. She was still laughing.

"That was fun."

His face flushed, but it was more due to the cold and the ridiculous dancing they'd been doing. "It...it was?"

She nodded, trying to find her breath. "I've never heard music like that before. How did you ever find something like that?"

He paused, running his fingers down the strings. "I created it." She blinked. "It sounds like nonsense, but, it was true. At the time, I was able to construct symphonies and concertos from nothing. But that was...a long time ago."

She sighed. She'd pried too much again, hadn't she. He shook his head.

"Nothing for you to worry over." He tucked the guitar back under his cloak. "We should hurry inside before it freezes."

George scooped up Melinoe and rushed inside. Catherine held her cloak tighter around her. Matthieu was taking his time, so she ran up beside him. His scarf blew into her face a bit, making her laugh. He simply stared at her with wide eyes.

She cleared her throat. "So, when should we do this again?"

"Again?" he asked.

"Again," she repeated. "I really enjoyed singing with you."

"Auh..." he trembled a bit before regaining some composure. "I-I suppose. But, maybe you could create your own material. It is amusing to experiment with what you have."

"Yes..." she clutched the axe still looped on her belt as Matthieu led her inside. She rushed over to the fire and ripped off her cloak. Matthieu chuckled.

"Don't tell me you were cold."

She shot him a playful look and returned to the fire. He stooped down to pick up her cloak and hang it on the coatrack. He carefully stepped over to a nearby chair and sat down, watching her.

"You know, it's funny."

"What is?" he asked.

"Last week you could hardly stand the thought of me. Now, here we are, sitting in front of the fire."

* * *

He shifted. "Yes, I suppose it is."

She stared into the fire, her hair falling loose over her eyes. She was so ethereal in the firelight. She didn't even know it, did she? She didn't even know she was a glowing goddess in a monster's cave. Perhaps he should tell her now, to save her and himself the pain.

"Your family must be worried sick," he thought aloud.

Her hands lowered a bit. "I'm not sure."

He knit his brow. "What do you mean?"

She turned the ring on her right hand, still staring at the fire. "My mother died when I was young...my father was murdered some months ago...The only family I have now is my aunt on my mother's side."

"Oh..." he managed. "I-I'm sorry."

"It's alright." She sighed. "I've come to terms with it."

Her face fell again, and so did Matthieu's stomach. Why was her face so devastatingly painful? He couldn't bear to watch! He should have walked away and let her be alone. But he rose from his chair and approached her slowly. He offered a gloved hand to her.

"Would you like to join me for lunch?"

* * *

_**La Seine and I**_** by Vanessa Paradis and -M-**


	12. Graines de Grenade

Mrs. Townsend set some soup in front of Catherine, earning a thank you. She waited until Matthieu was served before she began eating.

"So, I'm curious."

"About what, mademoiselle?"

She stirred her soup. "You said you were there when _La Seine _was written and presented."

He nodded. "Yes."

_"_But you also said that was the way it was intended to be performed."

"Yes?"

"But you said you created that style of music."

He shoved his spoon in his mouth, obviously trying to avoid the question. Catherine waited patiently. He swallowed.

"That is an excellent question."

"That you are obviously trying to avoid."

He glanced to the side, drumming his fingers on the table. "It was a very long time ago. But, yes, I did write the song. You don't need to believe me. It doesn't matter."

"How can you say that?" she scolded. "I saw you in the garden. You were enjoying every moment of that. How can you say it doesn't matter?"

He set his spoon aside. "I'd rather not delve into my past. There are many things I'd prefer to keep clandestine."

Catherine said nothing and pushed her soup bowl aside. "I suppose I'm still confused."

Matthieu leaned back in his chair. "Believe me, I wish I could explain everything I know to you. But, I can't."

"Because of the curse," she figured. He blinked, surprised. "I've read about curses in stories. How they usually have a lesson behind them and what they entail. You can't tell me because it involves me."

He shook his head frantically. "No! No no no no! That is not your burden to bear."

"I know," she sighed. "At least, I think I do. I...I'm less confused than when I first arrived. But, seeing how much you're suffering, I can understand why you behaved in such a manner towards me."

He sighed. "That's not an excuse."

"No," she agreed.

He said nothing else. Catherine awkwardly stared at her soup. When was she going to learn not to pry? She glanced up uninterestedly at the decor. A painting hung over the mantle, depicting a party with women in flowing dresses and their handsome partners. She fixed her gaze on it, and she giggled.

"Something amusing?" He asked, snapping her out of her trance.

"Oh! I just experienced a sudden vision," she explained, pointing to the painting. "Of all the women wearing waistcoats and the men in dresses."

He chuckled. "Very interesting vision."

She giggled again. "Gilles calls it Mirror Vision, where everything is the opposite of what it should be." He looked up questioningly, his eyes piercing right through her. "Oh, Gilles was my only friend back in my village. He, sort of, took me in after my father died... I hope he's alright."

Matthieu released a breath. What, had he thought Gilles was Catherine's lover? She held back a laugh. Gilles was far too old and had been a father to her in the months since her own father's death. In addition, it seemed silly that Matthieu would even interest himself with her. As if a high-esteemed lord like Matthieu would be jealous, especially because of someone as plain as she.

* * *

Matthieu relaxed as the claws beneath his gloves began to retract. His initial jealousy of hearing another man's name from Catherine gave into fear. She was a beautiful girl. Who's to say someone already hadn't swept her off her feet? The ring around her finger was an engagement ring, but it was on her right hand. If she were engaged or married already, it would be on the left hand. Even if she wasn't married, his emotions needed to be kept at bay.

That one bout of envy could have caused him to transform, and she would be dead. Another part of him hungered for her differently. It was savage, animalistic desire that lurked in the back of his mind. She was alluring, attractive. A surge of primal instinct was screaming at him that she was his and his alone, that he should take her and make her his mate.

She glanced up at him. He stared into her hazel ember eyes, and the instinct washed away. He managed half a smile and went back to his food. He didn't want to harm her, and if he ever found out he had - or worse, killed her - he didn't think he could live with himself.

"Do you dance?" she asked.

"Hm? Oh, not anymore. But it's alright. I never liked those partner dances."

"Oh, neither do I," she rolled her eyes. "If you haven't noticed, I'm not exactly Pierre Beauchamp."

He chuckled nervously. "Well, you won't need to worry, then."

Mrs Townsend collected the soup bowls and replaced them with roast beef. Catherine picked at her meal while Matthieu could hardly contain himself at the sight of meat. He looked up, not knowing exactly how much time had past or how much he'd eaten. She stared at him, her face unreadable. He peered down at his plate and found it empty. His mouth was covered in red juices. He pulled the serviette over his face. He'd ruined his chances. Gentlemen didn't eat their food like dogs. He was fully prepared for her to rise from her seat and vacate the room.

She simply smiled understandingly and returned to her meal.

He swallowed, cleaning his face and returning the serviette to the table. He'd been lucky, he supposed. She was simply being polite, but she would only take so much. After this, she would never accept another meal with him again. Perhaps, he should tell her now before either of them got hurt. Mrs. Townsend removed his plate and retreated to the kitchen, waiting for Catherine to finish.

Catherine pushed her plate away from her, half the meat still on her plate.

"Not hungry anymore?" he inquired.

She shrugged her shoulders. "Dessert seems lovely. I wouldn't want to fill up before then."

"That's fair," he reasoned. He eyed the meat on her plate, a bit well done for his palate, but it smelled so good!

"You can have it," she offered. "I really don't mind."

"Really?" he asked. She nodded, sliding the plate over to him. He tore off a piece. "Thank you."

She gave him a gentle smile. It marveled him how she could trust him so easily when she had every right not to. He shoved the roast beef into his mouth just as Mrs. Townsend came to collect the plate and set dessert in front of them. They each took a half of the pomegranate, Matthieu averting his eyes from how close their hands were. Why did this bother him so much? This instinct needed to be subdued, to protect both of them.

Catherine plucked a seed from the fruit and slipped it into her mouth.

"Matthieu, are you feeling well?"

His eyes were focused on her lips, deep red from the seed she'd eaten. The animal inside him begged for those lips to be captured in its, to tear into her beautiful skin, to ravage her to pieces until -

"**_No!_**"

She started, swallowing another seed whole.

"I-I mean - I - " he cleared his throat. "Pardon me, Angel."

"Perhaps I should leave you to rest," she started to stand.

He stood first. "No, I'm alright! Please, don't leave quite yet."

She stared at him, at a loss of what she should do. She popped one last seed into her mouth. What was he doing? He couldn't confuse her more. He sighed in defeat and sat back down. He heard rather than saw her rise from her seat and hesitantly exit the room.

As soon as he was sure she'd gone, Matthieu ripped off his glove. His shaking hand was tipped with small, sharp claws. Mrs. Townsend entered, grasping his hand.

"Is it getting worse?"

He nodded fearfully. "The silver chamber must be repaired as soon as possible. Tell George to retrieve my tools, and I'll need a new pair of gloves. And make sure that damn cat is - "

"What about Miss Catherine?" she asked the ever-important question.

He averted his gaze. He couldn't bear to think of her now. He needed to focus on repairing the chamber, _to keep her safe _\- He smacked the side of his head. The girl was in his damned head! Mrs. Townsend snatched his hands, thinking he was in the midst of an episode. He inhaled deeply.

"I'm fine. I...I need to retire to my room." He rose to his feet. Mrs. Townsend nodded and removed the untouched dessert from the table.

* * *

Matthieu shut the doors to his sacred place and knelt by the pool. His reflection stared mockingly at him. He averted his gaze and removed his gloves. The transformation hadn't progressed much further, which was good. But he was still a man with claws.

"_The curse is growing stronger."_

He snapped to attention. The witch stared at him through the water. He scowled, replacing the gloves on his hands.

"_There's no use trying to ignore it."_

"I can't ignore it. Any bout of anger or despair could be my end, and the end of everyone around me." His hands trembled. "Do you know how much pain I am in? Are you aware of the suffering you've put on me, witch?!"

She sighed. _"I am aware. That's why I am trying to help you."_

"_HELP ME?! _You're the reason I'm in this disaster! You've made me into this! You've turned me into a beast!"

She folded her arms over her black and white tunic, casting him a stern look. "_Have I?"_

Matthieu balled his hands into fists, whipping his head away from her. "Leave me, sorceress! Mock me no more."

Her stern face softened the slightest bit. She pressed her hand to the edge of the water, as if trying to reach through a pane of glass. "_My dear Matthieu, I've seen how you are around her. You have a chance. You must see that!"_

"...What would she do if she knew the path was clear for travel? She would leave." He glanced back at her. "I do see my chance. But would it be better to ruin someone's life in order to save your own, or to ruin your own life to save another?"

"_You wish to let her go?"_

He tensed his shoulders. If she left, he'd be lost. He'd be left to rot in the body and mind of a bloodthirsty monster. But, if she stayed, she'd be left to rot in the home of a bloodthirsty monster. He couldn't decide which was worse.

His gaze hardened. "She could never love me anyway. She knows what I am. If she hasn't left by the next full moon, and the silver chamber has not yet been repaired, then it will not matter. Either she runs or she's ki - "

The words lodged in his throat. Even as he thought it, even though he still knew hardly anything about her, he couldn't bear the thought of knowing she was in danger.

"_So,"_ the witch pondered. "_what will you do?"_

Matthieu sighed. "I must repair the chamber, if she is to live."

* * *

Catherine sat at her washtable, brushing her deep red locks. George had entered earlier and was now sprawled on her bed. She didn't mind. He was great company when he wasn't getting himself into trouble.

"George?" she asked.

"Yes?"

"What do you know about...what is they're called in English? Euh...the men that change into wolves under the full moon."

"You mean a werewolf?"

She nodded. "_Oui! Un loup-garou! _Is...is that what he is?"

"Who?" he asked.

"Matthieu."

George fell silent, his fingers digging into the velvet covers on the bed. "I...I wouldn't want to think of it that way. I mean, he doesn't exactly act like a werewolf should."

"What do you mean?"

"Werewolves are supposed to be malevolent beings that kill without mercy. They acquire their powers from the Devil, and they are fully aware of what they are doing and whom they are killing."

Catherine frowned and shook her head. "That doesn't sound like Matthieu."

George shrugged. "I guess not, but the master isn't all that spectacular of a man."

Catherine rolled her eyes. "I know that. But, he isn't all that bad either. I know he doesn't want to hurt me."

"He doesn't," George agreed. "But, you can't deny that he's become somewhat...unhinged."

Catherine thought back to his outburst over lunch. His emotions were erratic, almost wild. But his eyes held only fear. Fear of himself. She set the brush down and tied her hair back up.

"I know. But it's not his fault." She rose from the chair and sat next to George. "George, when he woke up from _La Bete, _I felt there was something different. Something different about the tone of his voice, the look in his eye. And I've seen he's taken great strides since I've arrived. Not only that, but I've also come to see something in you. Something bigger than anyone!"

George smiled, Melinoe hopping onto his lap. He stroked her back before turning back to Catherine.

"You know, you can leave whenever you want. I don't think he's going to stop you."

Catherine nodded. "I know."

"Then why do you stay?" he asked.

Catherine pondered for a moment before answering. "I don't know. Maybe it's this unhealthy desire to help the man holding power over me or that here, I finally have real friends."

"Like me?" he asked.

She nudged him playfully. "Yes. Like you."

George threw his arms around her, Melinoe rubbing along Catherine's back. George scooped up his cat and cradled her.

"You want to watch me throw her into the master's room. It's funny because he gets angry."

She leaned back a bit, raising an eyebrow. "Euh...no, thank you. I think I'm alright."

He shrugged his shoulders and slid off the bed. "Your loss."

He scuttled out the door, but peeked back in. "You know, if you are going to stay, maybe you should stay away from the master's rooms."

Catherine nodded. "I suppose. I mean, one of the rooms is destroyed."


	13. La Premiere Pleine Lune

_**December 1766, Chastel, Taverne du Plus Saint que Toi**_

Jean-Charles paced in front of the fire, waiting anxiously for his men to return. His father snored in the armchair, a beer tankard still dangling from his hand. He glanced out the window for the umpteenth time. No moon shone that night. Better for things to remain in the dark.

The doors burst open, snow blowing in from the streets. Victor and Clement were holding the door steady while Thomas lugged in a heavy, writhing sack. Arnaud chuckled madly behind them.

Jean-Charles approached them and nodded for Thomas to drop the sack. He did, the twins arriving to untie it. Jean scowled at the feeble old man twisted into the burlap. Gilles glanced up at him and gasped. Jean stepped froward and knelt down to eye level. He smiled.

"For an old man, you certainly have a spring in your step. Hopping from place to place. Tell me old boy, have you forgotten our arrangement?"

_"Arrangement!" _Arnaud repeated.

Gilles cowered, shaking his head. "Of course not, Master Jean-Charles! You see, since the Madame has let me go, I've been...traveling! To find another line of work. I would work for you, but that would be tedious to earn money and give it right back - "

Jean glanced up the the twins. Victor and Clement grabbed either Gille's arms and hauled him over to a table. Jean sat across from him, his lackeys taking the seats around him. He looked about them, exchanging a meaningful look.

"I say, _mes amis, _I want to believe him. But I don't, do you?"

The others exchanged confused glances.

"Boss, what's he lied about?" Victor asked.

"I mean, he does owe us another few hundred francs because he saw us beating that - " Jean punched Clement in the jaw. "_Aie!"_

Jean cracked his knuckles.

"I believe what they were trying to say," Thomas pointed. "was yes."

"_Yeeeees..." _Arnaud whispered.

Gilles darted his eyes back and forth, sweat beginning to prick from this skin. Jean-Charles leaned forward. "Listen, Gilles. I don't want to hurt you. Truly, I don't. I a a reasonable man, but I can be _un_reasonable."

Thomas leaned down, whispering something into Arnaud's ear. The little man hobbled off his chair, muttering "_Quietly! Quietly. Quieeeeetly. QUIETLY!"_

The remaining men stared at him curiously before turning back to their humble guest. Jean smirked.

"Gilles, I'm willing to make you an offer." He slid an envelope in front of the old man. Gilles opened it and read its contents. "I am willing to let go of everything you owe. You may go on living a comfortable life, and we shall never speak of it again. There's one thing you'll need to do for me."

Jean-Charles's gaze hardened. "_Where is Catherine_?"

Gilles gasped. "You want me to exchange Catherine for my freedom?!"

Jean-Charles shook his head, clicking his tongue in disappointment. "Old boy, you really have no right to argue in this situation. You were the one who abducted her."

"She came willingly! She had the choice to go back! Besides...I don't know where she is. I lost her in the woods one night. We were fending off _La Bete._"

Jean exchanged looks with his men. "The fearsome _La Bete _that has been attacking our village?"

"It was more of a...a wolf man! _Un __Loup-garou!"_

The henchmen burst out laughing. Thomas wiped away a tear. "I believe the old man has finally gone round the bend."

"It's true!" Gilles persisted. "And, even if I knew where Catherine was, I would never tell you! I know your lot, Jean-Charles Porcher. I watched your poor mother suffer at your father's hand, and I could never life with myself if the same happened to my Angel."

"She's not your daughter, old man!" Jean stood abruptly, Arnaud hobbling back over with a bucket of water. Jean reached into the bucket. "You know where she is, and I will make you talk."

He raised his hand, revealing a large, black leech between his fingers.

* * *

_**January 9th, 1767**_

Catherine wandered the halls aimlessly. Mrs. Townsend was busy as always working in the kitchen. George was elsewhere; Catherine couldn't find him. She'd been spending nearly three weeks with the boy, it seemed fair that he have some time to himself. She glanced up at the paintings again. How the gods loved their parties. But she was by no means the life of the party.

Experimentally, she swept her arm up, whirling her skirts around herself. Imaginary music flowed in her head, guiding her feet slowly down the hall. She kicked up a bit of dust, swirling around her like fairy powder. Perhaps she could convince Mrs. Townsend to assist her in this part of the chateau -

She cried out as her foot caught the edge of her skirts. She tumbled forward and landed face-first on the wooden floor. Her arm stung from the impact. She struggled to lift herself just as Melinoe scampered from further down the hall. She heard Matthieu yell, and realized she had wandered her way to the western wing. She stumbled to her feet and brushed herself off. She remembered George had warned her not to venture in there anymore. But...Matthieu was no danger to her. At least, not when he took his elixir.

She stepped further into the wing.

"_Bloody cat!" _Matthieu cursed, coughing into his scarf. He was dressed simpler than she had previously seen him, but he always kept the same red scarf. He groaned, exhaustedly leaning on the door he'd been working on. He jumped back in pain; he'd leaned on the silver door.

Catherine rushed over to help him.

He looked up. "What are you doing here?"

She shrugged. "Wandered in. Let me look at that burn."

She gently grasped his arm, much to his chagrin. She rolled up his sleeve and examined the singed skin on his arm. Her heart dropped when she saw the multitude of scars, fresh scratches, and burns lining his forearm. She glanced up at him.

He sighed, pulling down his scarf to reveal the ones on his neck. "My transformations tend to be violent...and painful."

She carefully replaced his sleeve, putting on a reassuring smile. "I'll ask Mrs. Townsend for some honey for the new wounds."

She approached the door.

"You don't need to trouble yourself," he insisted. "I can manage a few burns."

Catherine ran her hand along the cold silver. "You can't neglect yourself."

"I'm not! I'm just...a few burns here and there are not important."

Catherine examined the door. It was leaned forward on a broken hinge, looking as if it would fall and crush her at any moment. She tilted her head for a better look. The hinge was bent, but not loose. Easily fixable, she decided.

She turned to Matthieu. "Alright, I'll need a ladder, a candle, and something blunt. Oh! And a pail of water."

She found a ladder to her left anyway and dragged it over. Matthieu stared at her incredulously. She propped the ladder onto the wall and began her climb. Matthieu held it steady.

"What are you doing?!"

She peered down at him. "I believe I've found the problem. Could I have a candle?"

Matthieu brought over a lit candle. Catherine took it and climbed up to the bent hinge.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" he asked nervously. "You could burn my house down!"

"I promise I know what I'm doing." She held the tiny flame to the bent metal, warming it slowly. She peered down again. "How long have you been working on this door?"

He gripped the ladder to steady it. "This side I've only started. The other door I've been working for days. I was much worse for wear."

She nodded, watching the metal hinge become warmer and softer. She snuffed out the candle, waving out the smoke, before dropping it to the floor. Matthieu dove to catch it, rattling the ladder. Catherine gasped, holding the wall. He held the ladder again, staring up at her with concern.

"I'm alright!" she assured, grasping the axe and unhooking it from her belt. She took the handle and pounded it into the soft metal, bending it slowly back into place. Once or twice, she climbed back down to grab the candle Matthieu had relit. Finally, the hinge was back in its proper place.

"I've got it!" She hooked the axe back onto her belt.

Matthieu wrapped the scarf around his hand and carefully tried the door. It swung open with relative ease. A clear smile spread across his face, a small note escaping his chest in obvious delight. It was adorable, she thought.

She stepped back to return to the ground. Her stomach lurched as her foot caught her skirt again, sending her tumbling. Matthieu gasped, swiftly turning just as she landed. He fell to the floor, her head landed on his chest. She looked up.

His hands trembled and his heart pounded in his chest. She brushed the hair from her eyes. "Are you alright?"

"I-I-I - I'm fine!" he stammered, his cheeks flushed. "Are you hurt?! What about your arm?!"

Catherine glanced at her arm. The stitches were still intact, but the bandages had been removed the day before. It seemed alright.

"I'm alright," She said.

She felt his breathing stick. She leaned in worriedly. His face was heavily flushed now, and she realized she was on top of him, and had been for some time. Her face grew hot.

George cleared his throat, both of them looking up. George smirked. "Hard chamber work, Master?"

Catherine scrambled off of Matthieu, trying to stutter an explanation. Matthieu rose to his feet and gripped the back of the boy's collar, lifting him off the ground. George panicked. "No! NO! Not the window again! Not the window!"

Catherine sprang to her feet and ripped George out of his grasp. "Matthieu!"

Matthieu sputtered. "He was making lude insinuations."

"He's sixteen!" Catherine protested. "And, while I would appreciate and understand what you're asking, Matthieu, I think you ought to engage with George rather than push him away."

Matthieu blinked in surprise. "What?"

Catherine held George in front of her. "Here, you and George talk things over. Tell Matthieu what is troubling you, George."

"Well, Master..." George started. "I think I can see into the future."

Matthieu raised an eyebrow. "When did this start?"

"Next Monday!"

"We're done here." Matthieu turned on his heels and made his way to his chambers. Catherine grasped his arm.

"Matthieu, please!"

Matthieu sighed. "Ang - _Catherine..." _Catherine straightened, pleasantly surprised by him addressing her by name. "I admire your compassion for the boy, but I've lived with him for 10 years, since he was a boy. We have our differences and we don't get along. And that's just that."

Catherine sighed in defeat. Matthieu cautiously wove his fingers through hers, making her blush a bit.

"Ah...Catherine. I need you to stay in your room, once the sun goes down, for the rest of the week."

"Why?" she inquired.

He glanced to the side, refusing to look her in the eye. "I don't want to harm you."

She glanced down at their hands. He was so gentle with her hand. Did he think he'd snap it off if he made any sudden moves? Her eyes trailed back up to his. Tortured, full of pain and years of suffering. The intensity of his gaze was overwhelming. Her first instinct was to pull away or shrink up, like when Jean-Charles held her shoulders or grabbed her skirt. But this was different. Matthieu wasn't harsh or demanding. He was afraid.

She gave his hand a gentle squeeze and nodded to him. "Will you be alright?"

He stared at the floor, unsure. He shook his head, looking back at her. "I'll be alright. It hasn't killed me yet."

"Yet?"

He sighed sadly. "That's not for you to worry over. Trust me, and stay locked in your room. Please?"

She nodded again, and she released his hand. She carefully hitched up her skirts and started back up the hall.

"Catherine?"

She turned around.

"If I escape...you have my permission to attack me."

"What?! No!"

"Then run!" he pressed. "Don't put yourself in harm's way."

Before Catherine could answer, he retreated to his room. George appeared beside Catherine.

"Don't take it personally. He just _likes _you~."

Catherine scoffed. "No, he just doesn't want to hurt me."

George shook his head. "Catherine, you innocent little angel. He is obviously keeping you away because he likes you. That, and to protect you from the vicious, bloodthirsty, man-eating monster he turns in, lurking the halls at night while you slumber like a helpless baby."

"George," she scowled.

"All I'm saying is that he has feelings for you."

Catherine shook her head again."George, that is ridiculous. I'm sure he appreciates my presence, but there's no earthly way he could "like" me, if what I think you're insinuating is true."

George shrugged. "You don't need to believe me. But you saw how he looked at you."

* * *

**_January 15th, 1767_**

Catherine laid in her bed, her eyes glued to the window. The last rays of sunlight were reflecting off the roofs in front of her. Mrs. Townsend had locked all the doors, and George offered to spend the night with Catherine. She politely declined, but allowed Melinoe to stay with her for "protection." The cat curled up in the small of her back, purring. Catherine couldn't bear to sleep. Her thoughts kept running back to Matthieu.

The sun completely set, and the entire forest was still and silent.

His agonized scream rang through the darkness, short and echoing before crying out. She gripped the blankets, attempting to block out the screams that transitioned into distorted wails and howls. Melinoe was eerily calm, only moving to curl up under Catherine's arm. The howling and screaming continued before eventually dying down.

And everything was silent again.

The house thundered, and Catherine bolted upright. Melinoe arched her back, yowling. Catherine scooped her up and stroked her ears to soothe her. The walls rattled with agonizing howls and cries. He was trying to escape!

Catherine dropped Melinoe on the bed and ran to the door, her hand on the lock. The cat hopped down and ran between her legs. She pressed her front paws to the door, urging her not to open it. She meowed sadly.

Catherine finally sighed, scooped her up, and slipped back into bed. The thumps had stopped, leaving only whimpers. Catherine curled up under the blankets, Melinoe cuddling up to her. She trembled, imagining Matthieu.

Alone, locked in a room that could inflict severe burns, his body twisted horribly and brutally - She buried her face into the pillow. The full moon shone through her window, cruelly mocking her. She sneered at it, cursing it for transforming him. Tears pricked at her eyes, and the realization hit her:

She saw him as a friend.


	14. La Musique Apaise la Bete Sauvage

The sun rose over the horizon. Catherine was already awake. In fact, she hadn't slept at all. The terror and sadness she felt for her friend, for Matthieu, was too intense. Melinoe spent the entire night with her, comforting her when she had the urge to run from the room and go to Matthieu herself. Part of her reasoned that it was too dangerous and she should listen to Matthieu. But the most part of her wanted to go to him and comfort him. Melinoe resolved to sleeping on Catherine's stomach for the entire night.

Catherine sat up and glanced at the ornate clock. It was barely six o'clock.

_Close enough! _she thought, and she flung herself out of bed. She threw on a dressing gown and rushed up the hall, down the stairs, and into the narrow hall towards the western wing. She stopped at the silver door, pressing her ear to it. It was silent.

She lifted her hand to the tarnished lock and carefully lifted unlatched it, the door swinging open. The room was dark and cold, harsh winds blew in from the barred windows. She pushed the door open further. Even parts of the floor were silver, scratched and torn by, presumably, one of Matthieu's outbursts. She pressed her entire body into the door, letting some light into the room.

Lying in the center of the floor was Matthieu.

His body was still thin and splotched gray from his earlier night. His body was naked save for a torn pair of knickers still holding onto his hips. His raised his head. His face was angled and slender, his nose still flat and his ears pointed. He let out a snarl, his yellow eyes staring at her like a meal. He sprang to his knees, ready to lunge on her. But he collapsed, holding his face.

Catherine bit her lip, slowly approaching him. She feared if she moved too quickly, he would attack or cower like a wounded animal. She stopped a meter away from him, her hand outstretched towards him. He gasped for air on the floor, shaking in pain. She knelt down carefully, her hand mere centimeters from him. He snapped his head up, his eyes that hideous yellow. She gasped, but didn't move.

Several moments past. The two stared at each other, neither of them moving. She gazed into his eyes as they slowly faded into the beautiful green she'd first seen him have. They rolled back into his head, and he hit the floor.

"Matthieu!" She crawled over and cradled his head in her arm. "Matthieu? Matthieu, are you alright?"

* * *

A voice called out to him, distant and echoing. It was ethereal, like a song sung by a wren. Matthieu willed his eyes to open. His ears adjusted, and he realized it was his name being called.

"_Matthieu? Matthieu?! Matthieu, wake up! Please, wake up!"_

His eyes opened a bit, a bit fuzzy due to the light flooding into the room. A flurry of red hair filled his vision, and two ember eyes stared at him with worry. Catherine held his head gently in her arms.

"_C-Catherine?"_

She sighed in relief, helping him sit. He grunted in pain, several scratches in his chest burning. He was thankful for the patch of clothing still attached to his lower body. He wouldn't know what to do if she saw him naked.

"What are you - " She hushed him before he could finish. She wrapped his arm over her shoulders.

"Can you stand?"

"I think..." He dragged his knees underneath him, trying to drag himself up. His legs gave way. "No! No, I can't."

"Alright." She pushed herself up with one arm around Matthieu's waist and the other holding the arm around her shoulders. She hauled him to his feet. "You'll have to help me."

He nodded blearily to her and began the painful journey out of the silver room. He gritted his teeth against the hot white pain the silver gave his feet. It was as if he were walking across hot coals. Catherine quickened her pace, dragging him across the threshold and into the hallway. She knelt down to let him rest.

He shook his head furiously and willed himself back to his feet. Catherine obliged and aided him slowly through the gold door, and she didn't stop until she gently set him into his hair by the fireplace. She struck a match and put some kindling in the hearth to start a fire. He gazed at her, her dark red hair burning gold in the embers of fire.

"Catherine..."

She glanced up at him, her eyes full of fear. He was too weak to turn his head, so he resorted to closing his eyes. He couldn't bear to see her fear, to see the terror she felt towards him. A warm hand settled on his arm. He opened his eyes. Catherine studied him nervously.

"How are you feeling?" she asked, taking him aback. He'd been wholeheartedly prepared for her to tell him that she would be leaving, that she would run far away where he could never find her. But she was concerned for him. "Matthieu?"

He stiffly adjusted himself in the chair. Everything ached, his head pounding like a drum and his limbs as heavy as lead. He shivered just as the fire was starting to breathe life. Catherine ran to the linen closet and threw a blanket over him. He smiled slightly.

"_Thank you..."_

Catherine stoked the fire, allowing Matthieu to think. She didn't run. She'd come right to him, staying in there for God knows how long, and completely uninjured. How could this woman be so brave? Surely she could have a better life without him to put it in danger. She rose to her feet, which were tiny and dainty compared to her strong, slender body. She approached him, peeling back the blanket.

She gently produced his hand and examined it carefully. He chuckled. "You're better at taking care of others than you are yourself."

"I'd say the same for you, but..." her gaze trailed down his arm to his hand. "Matthieu, your hand!"

He glanced at his clawed hand, and nodded weakly. "Yes, I'm afraid some things have stayed past the transformations."

She stood a bit, examining his neck and face. She knitted her brow. "Does that include this?"

Puzzled, he reached up to touch his face. His eyes, nose and mouth seemed in order. He reached up to his ears. They were pointed and poking out of his hair. His breath quickened, his hands coming to cover his ears.

"Matthieu, what's the matter?!"

"_The curse! The curse, its - !" _His hands gripped his hair. It was growing worse. His fingers closed around his ears, and he hoped his claws would tear off the pointed ends. Catherine seized his wrists, trying to calm him. "Angel, please...leave this place. You have been able to leave this whole time. And, I have to apologize for that. But, Catherine... you are not safe here."

She lowered his hands and sat back on her heels. "Let's calm down."

"...Alright."

She smiled, pulling her dressing gown over her chest. "Would you like to hear a story? My mother used to tell it to me whenever I could not sleep."

He swallowed, willing his wildly beating heart to steady. "Alright."

She lifted herself into a chair, her ankles crossed and her hands in her lap. She cleared her throat, and she sang:

"_Soldier, soldier,  
Will you marry me  
with your musket, fife, and drum?_

_Oh, how could I marry  
such a pretty little girl  
when I have no shoes to put on?_

_And off to the cobbler, she did go  
As fast as she could run  
She brought him back the finest that was there  
And the soldier put them on."_

Matthieu listened intently, the girl asking the soldier twice more for marriage. She gladly gave him what he asked, a coat and a fine hat. What else could she give him that could possibly let him accept?

_"Now, soldier, soldier,  
__Will you marry me  
__with your musket, fife, and drum...?"_

She paused her song, eying him slyly.

_"Oh, how could I marry  
__such a pretty little girl...?"_

"WHAT ELSE COULD HE POSSIBLY WANT?!" he blurted out.

Catherine held up a finger, making him wait.

"..._w__ith a wife and baby at home?"_

He laughed, not expecting that ending at all. He inhaled deeply to compose himself. "Forgive me, but - "

"Not expecting that?" she asked playfully.

He shook his head, a smile still fighting to break through. "Why lead that poor girl on?"

Catherine giggled. "Well, if a random girl ran up to you and begged you to marry her, how would you react?"

He nodded. "Fair. But, you shouldn't take advantage of the poor idiot."

Catherine shrugged and nodded. "Touche." He failed to stifle another laugh, turning painfully so she couldn't see. She smiled knowingly. "I've never heard you laugh before."

"...I've never really had a reason to." he admitted.

"That's very sad."

"I did enjoy the story."

She grinned. "I'm glad. I have plenty more, if you'd like to hear them."

"I'd..." he cleared his throat. "I'd like that."

* * *

_"Now the Turk he had one only daughter_  
_And she was fair as she could be_  
_She stole the keys to her father's prison_  
_And declared Lord Bateman she'd set free_

_She took him down to the deepest cellar_  
_She gave him a drink of the strongest wine_  
_She threw her loving little arms around him_  
_Crying oh, Lord Bateman if you were mine."_

"This Turk lady seems a bit desperate." Matthieu noted.

Catherine threw down her arms. "I told you to stop interrupting!" Snow dragged along her ankles as they walked side-by-side around the chateau. He'd tried to hide his ears, but ultimately failed. Catherine didn't mind anyway. In fact, she was very quick to voice in favor of them.

"Aren't I allowed?" he asked.

"Certainly not!"

He chuckled, getting used to the feel of laughter again. "You know, with the number of stories you've told me, you could put Scheherazade to shame."

She scoffed laughingly. "Nonsense. I could never measure to a woman as great as her."

"That is nonsense, Angel." Her foot caught a patch of uneven path, pulling her to the ground. Matthieu dove and caught her by the elbow, assisting her to her feet again. "Are you hurt?"

"No, no. I'm alright." She lifted her hands a bit. "Could I...?"

Tentatively, he raised his arm. She wrapped her hands around the velvet of his sleeve. His chest tightened when she squeezed the slightest bit. He wordlessly led them forward, convincing himself that this was for the sake of her balance and not a show of affection.

"Tell me something about yourself," she broke the silence. "I...I know so little about you."

"Euh..." What was he to say? That he was a provocative composer who loved women? That he'd been trapped in time for ten years, in reality 33? He knew just as much about her. So, he thought of an idea. "Only if you tell me something of yourself."

"Deal," she agreed. "Euh...I have a scar on my left knee."

"From what?" he laughed.

She grinned sheepishly. "I slipped with a whittling knife."

"What on earth were you whittling?!"

She waved her hand at him. "That's not important. So, what about you?"

"Euh...I have six sisters."

_"SIX _sisters?!"

He laughed, acknowledging the ridiculousness of it. "Yes, and they loved nothing more than to dress me up like one of their dolls."

"Oh, I'm sure you were an adorable baby."

"I was nine," he said dryly. "Though, it wasn't all bad. I never recalled being bored in my younger years."

"Where are they now?"

"They were married off some years ago. I'm not sure what's become of them." She clutched his coat to give him some comfort. His chest tightened comfortably. "May I ask you something? Just out of curiosity?"

"Yes."

"Where were you headed? Before you...arrived here, that is."

The color drained from her face, and her gaze fell to the ground. "I was going to Paris."

"Paris? That's quite far."

She nodded in agreement. "It's where I'm from."

"I thought you lived in a village," he recalled.

"I do - _did_? - It's complicated right now. I was born in Paris. My father was a woodcarver. He made furniture and toys and other works of art. And he made good money."

"Why did you leave?"

"Well, my - Wait! That was two questions!"

He grinned cheekily. "It was a two-parter."

She glared at him, but continued her story. "My mother died when I was seven. A part of my father died with her, and the business failed. My aunt on my mother's side owned a large plot of land in Chastel. So, we moved there. I was allowed to live in the manor for a while, but my father was left for the woodmill."

"What?!" Matthieu exclaimed. "Why wasn't he invited to live there with you?"

"_Three!"_

"I'm invested. Please, go on!"

She sighed. "My aunt is a...difficult woman. My father was someone she considered beneath her in status and thus would not be allowed to walk amongst her as such. My father was much happier in the mill anyway." She chuckled hollowly. "He was the one who taught me to wield an axe. I'd run off and venture into the woods with him to cut down trees for his projects. Once, he created an entire chess set from one log."

"So, you know how to play chess?"

She cocked her head. "Do I sense a challenge?"

He laughed. "Alright, but I must warn you: I am very good."

"Oh really~?"


	15. Un Jeu d'Echecs

"Checkmate, again."

Matthieu gaped at the board, Catherine giggling. He shook his head in disbelief. "That's the 4th time you've bested me!"

She shrugged. "I've had some spare time on my hands."

Matthieu reset the board. His bewilderment was amusing to her, especially while his ears twitched when he was deep in thought. She considered letting him win this last time, just to make him happy. But that wouldn't be fair, would it?"

"Although, I've never played with ebony pieces."

"You can be white this time." He began to switch the colored pieces.

"That's not what I meant," she explained. "You see, my father was the one who taught me to play. He and I would collect rocks and leaves from the woods nearby and play on a tree stump. Then, when I was twelve, he surprised me with an entire chess set he'd carved himself. The one I told you before."

"Do you still have it?"

She nodded. "Mm. It's been collecting dust, I'm afraid."

Matthieu finished the setup and sat back. "White moves first, Angel."

She plucked up a pawn between two fingers. "That's something I've always wondered. Why do you call me that?"

"Call you what?" He jumped his knight.

"Angel. You've called me that since we've met." His cheeks and ears turned a bit pink, Catherine stifling a giggle. She moved another pawn. "I mean, I don't mind. I've just been wondering, is all."

He moved his pawn. "You have the voice of one. You can't argue with that."

Catherine shrugged. "I suppose." She moved her bishop. "But, my singing voice doesn't exactly lead anyone to believe I'm an angel."

He moved his knight. "I suppose it's...you have this innocence about you. You have this strong moral compass I couldn't begin to understand, and it's driven you away from what would normally taint any other human heart. I don't know if it's because of how you've been raised or if you were simply born that way..."

She moved her pawn, catching his knight. "I wouldn't call myself innocent by any means. I've...made mistakes in the past."

"So have I," he admitted, capturing her pawn with his bishop. "But, you've certainly taken it much better than I ever could have. You're so strong-willed."

Her hand hovered over the board, trying to decide which piece to move. Should she tell him? Should she say the awful truth that she was really a coward, and she'd probably left everything she'd ever known behind her like dust? She switched her king and her rook, disrupting Matthieu's strategy for a moment.

"My aunt is probably worried sick over me. And I don't even know if Gilles is still alive!"

He uninterestedly moved his rook. "Catherine, go back." He reached over the table to take her hand. "If wish to go back and see them, you may. I am not holding you here. No one is!"

She shook her head, the game in front of her abandoned. She bit back tears. "I can't, Matthieu. I'm not as strong-willed as you think."

"What do you mean?" He grasped her hand more tightly, wincing as he pressed his hand to her ring.

"Matthieu, I'm hurting you!"

He slid his hand away slightly, but still clung to her. "Catherine, are you alright? You've gone pale."

She couldn't bear to tell him. She'd spent all this time with him, and he'd painted this glorious picture of who he thought she was. She stamped her knight across the board, not caring what position it put her in.

"Your move."

He glanced at the board, then back at her. "Catherine."

She blinked back against hot, angry tears. "Matthieu, I can't go back to my village. I can't face them."

"What do you mean?"

She covered the ring over her hand. "I..._I ran away._"

"What?"

"I ran away!" She covered her face. "I'm a coward."

His face twisted into a scowl, but his reaction was not what she expected. "You are no coward, Mademoiselle DeCiel!"

"You don't understand."

"Then make me understand!"

She bit her quivering lip, shaking her head. "You'll think I'm - "

"No, I will not!" he interrupted. "And, even if I will, tell me anyway. Why did you run?"

His voice was gentle on his last question. She dared to look into his stern eyes. Still green, still beautiful and gentle. She furiously wiped her face, her gaze falling to her lap.

"Well, I suppose it's still a story...There was this...man. His name is Jean-Charles Porcher. He's a hunter. His father owns the village I lived in, and he thinks he is God's gift. He'd been pestering me for many years, but after my father...after he passed away, he'd become more persistent. And I couldn't turn him away. He and his father had tried to save Papa's life. And he began to use that against me.

"My aunt knew he was from a powerful family, so she arranged a marriage between us without my knowledge. I was forced into my own engagement party, but I turned him down and ran away. Gilles helped me escape mere hours later." She glanced up to view his reaction. His face was blank, unreadable. She hung her head in shame.

He slowly rose from his seat. "I'm glad you told me."

He promptly left, and Catherine sobbed.

* * *

Matthieu slammed the door to his sacred place, holding his pounding, aching head. He stumbled to the table and downed another vial of elixir. The pain in his head subsided, but not the pain in his chest.

The pool rippled beside him.

"_It's horrible, isn't it?" _He glanced at the vision of the witch in the water. _"And yet, this sort of thing happens all the time."_

He knelt down to face her. "Well, it shouldn't! That's not marriage; it's imprisonment!"

The witch shrugged. _"It worked for my parents."_

"You have parents?"

_"Of course I have parents! "Do I have parents?" What else would I have, dolphins?!" _She shook her head exasperatedly. _"But that was a long time ago. And, from the looks of it, Catherine seems farther ahead of her time than anyone can comprehend."_

"Marriage should be consensual!" he barked. "Both parties should be willing."

The witch shook her head. "_Unfortunately, it is not always like that. Not all marriages are like your parents'."_

He sighed at the mention of them. But his mind still lingered on Catherine. "I don't understand."

"_It may be difficult to understand. But, this is how the world will work for now. Unless..." _she raised an eyebrow at him. _"Do you love her?"_

"What?!" he exclaimed. "I...no. I don't know. Should I?"

"_That's not for me to say,"_ she replied. _"Can you learn to love someone within the span of a month?"_

He thought for a moment, not sure. He'd heard of love at first sight, and he remembered Mrs. Townsend telling him that's how she met her son's father. But, he had left. Some love, he'd thought. His parents had learned to love each other well into their marriage, and he never knew his mother enough to know her relationship with his father.

"If you're such an expert on love, tell me what I should do."

She laughed, and he noticed the left side of her hair fading into a dark brown. _"You think I'm an expert? I hardly know how love works, aside from what I've seen. You need to figure out how love works for you."_

He seethed, clenching his fists. "Why is this so HARD?!"

_"She's in distress," _she said, ignoring his question. _"Would you like to see her?"_

His anger ebbed a bit, and he nodded.

* * *

Mrs. Townsend handed Catherine a cup of tea, wrapping her arm around the shaken girl. Catherine trembled so much, her cup rattled. She had just explained to her what she had told Matthieu, and she couldn't hide her shame. The older woman handed her a handkerchief.

"Take a deep breath, dear."

She held the handkerchief over her mouth. "I'm such a fool! Such a selfish, cowardly fool!"

"No, you are not," she soothed. "You did what you felt was best."

"No, I didn't! I didn't think at all. I just ran and had no plan, no money, nowhere to go. All I knew was I couldn't marry that man."

"Exactly!" she pressed. "This situation was put upon you without your knowledge, and that is not your fault. If I was forced to marry a man I hated, I would have ran."

"But where would I have gone?" she asked. "Where would a 19-year-old girl with no money and no experience make a living anywhere?"

"I found myself here," Mrs. Townsend said simply.

Catherine glanced up at the kindly woman. "You..."

She nodded. "George's father was a charming man, and he had a deep way with words. Poetic, I think. That's what lured me to him, and how I had George. But, then, when I was not yet due, he informed me that he would be marrying another woman. And I was left on my own to raise a child without his father."

"That's terrible."

"Mm. But, I was hired for housekeeping jobs across England before I was able to journey to France, for a better life. That's when I met Matthieu."

Catherine sighed in defeat. "Is he angry with me?"

"No, dear. I'm certain he's not."

"But he left so quickly!"

"I think he couldn't understand why you were put into such a state, because of the unfairness of it all. And, he may never understand. But, he could never be angry with you for this. He's too fond of you."

A tear drew down Catherine's cheek. "He's fond of me?"

Mrs. Townsend nodded. "Very much so."

Catherine smiled down at her tea, dabbing her eyes with the handkerchief. "Thank you, Mrs. Townsend."

Mrs. Townsend took the handkerchief from her hand. "My pleasure, dear. Do you need anything else?"

Catherine shook her head. "I'll be fine, I think. Thank you."

* * *

Matthieu grinned at her image. Whatever she'd left behind she certainly didn't deserve. But his gaze moved to his clawed hand. He brought it to his face, examining the razor-sharp points on his fingertips. He was a danger to her, even more so than if she had stayed in her village or arrived in Paris. He'd made it clear to her that she could leave when she wanted, even if the snow was building up. It would not be a smooth journey, but she would reach her destination.

She'd had so many opportunities to run, and yet she'd stayed. It still astounded him that she'd consider staying with him.

He turned back to her form. She was by no means delicate. She had taken him on twice and managed to survive with her wits alone. But he couldn't be sure.

"I'll make sure she is protected, even after I am gone."

A bold statement from him, but he meant it. If she was harmed by his hand - paw - then he'd have no more reason to prolong the inevitable. He'd finish the job himself. But, if this curse could be broken before then...he dared to hope what may happen. A life with Catherine? It didn't sound all bad. She was a very lovely girl, funny and incredibly intelligent. Her stories made him laugh, and her smile made his stomach flutter. She was his dear friend.

But friendship couldn't be enough, he knew. She had to love him.

* * *

Catherine spent the rest of the day alone, reading or singing to empty air. She decided to allow Matthieu to come to her when he was ready. But her heart felt heavy in her time without him. The air felt stale.

She ate a meal of chicken and potatoes without him, eating slowly in case he may arrive late. She sat there waiting for 2 hours, and the sun had long set. She was left by herself to her lonely thoughts.

After an eternity, she finally stood and made her way to the door. What a fool she'd been. Yes, the situation may not have been her fault, but she had other options, didn't she? Something else would have worked out for her, right? But no matter how hard or how long she thought, she couldn't find a better solution than the one she took. If only Matthieu would talk to her.

Mrs. Townsend had said he was fond of her. She was fond of him too. He was reserved, yes. But he had this boyish energy about him that she very much adored. Hidden under that fearful exterior was someone who wanted to have fun. But he was so gentle with her. It was sweet how he couldn't bear to hurt her. But it was sad that he couldn't trust himself, because he was cursed.

Well, if he was too afraid to come to her, then she'd go to him.

She reached for the door handle, but gasped as it swung open on its own. Matthieu stepped back in surprise.

"Matthieu! You startled me."

"I-I...are you - "

"I'm alright. I was about to retire to my room."

"Could you stay a moment?" He fidgeted uncomfortably. "I wish to speak to you."

She supposed she had been expecting this. "Of course."

He sighed. "I...I came to apologize." She blinked in surprise. This was not the reaction she'd expected. "I should not have left so abruptly. I understand if you think I am cross with you. But, I am not!"

"You're...not?"

He entwined his fingers with hers, her left hand warming in his. "Of course not. What you've endured, I can't imagine. I simply...needed time to process the information."

She sighed. "Honestly, I can't process the information myself. My aunt put this upon me without my knowledge."

"Your aunt sounds like an old mule."

She giggled, perhaps a bit too hard. "She is very stubborn in her own right."

A small smile spread across his face, revealing a bit of a fang beneath his lip. She daren't say anything, but she slipped her hand through his. He stared down at their joined hands in astonishment, and she smiled at him sweetly.


	16. Une Nuit de Douleur et de Confort

_He stalked the frozen wood, his mouth watering at the scent of fresh meat. What was it? Was it deer, or maybe wild boar? The beast didn't care. It was hungry! He crouched low to the ground and spotted his prey: a small, slender human girl. He'd never tasted human flesh, but it smelt so sweet and juicy. He licked his chops, a snarl forming at his lips. The girl snapped her head up in alarm. Her auburn fell loosely around her hazel eyes, a hatchet in her hand._

_He rose onto his hind legs and made his presence known. The girl raised her axe. With one swipe of his paw, he swatted it away. He pinned the girl to the ground, staring into her burning ember eyes. They pleaded with him to spare her, to let her live. He knew these eyes. The human in him screamed at him to stop, to let this beautiful woman go! It was quickly silenced, and he sunk his teeth into her throat._

"NO!" Matthieu fell out of bed.

His hair clung to his sweat-drenched face, and he desperately gasped for air. He quickly examined his hands. His hands were human, clawed and slightly hairier that he remembered, but human nonetheless. No blood in sight. But he couldn't dismiss it. Yes, it was only a dream, but he had killed her. He'd killed Catherine!

He threw himself off the floor and pulled a dressing robe around his shoulders. He shivered at the monster he'd seen himself as. Was this a sign that this was his last month? Were these his final days? He tied his robe around his waist and stormed into the halls to wander.

His thoughts raced. Perhaps he needed to be firm with her. He cared for her, that was certain. And that was why she needed to leave. Perhaps he should order her to leave. But his chest felt heavy at the thought. If she left...the thought was unbearable. Ever since he sang with her in his garden, he'd seen her in a different light. Not as the perfect angel he thought she saw herself as, but the true angel she was.

_"Le soleil endormi_  
_Déjà tombe la nuit_  
_Et la lune douce luit_  
_Endors toi mon tout petit_  
_Tous les anges du ciel veilleront sur ton sommeil_  
_Tes rêves au goût de miel te feront voir des merveilles"_

He glanced out the window beside him. Catherine sat on the bench in the garden, a blanket tightly wrapped around her shoulders. The roses were open, turned white and emitting tiny glowing lights from their petals. It was snowing heavily; surely she was cold. He rushed down to the gate, but stopped to hear the rest of her song.

_"Mmmmm_

_Les oiseaux vont sans bruit se blottir au creux du nid_  
_Même la pluie dans la nuit ne réveille pas les petits_  
_Rêve bien bel enfant, sommeille au gré du vent_  
_Insouciant bel enfant contre le cœur de ta maman_

_Rêves bien bel enfant, sommeille au gré du vent_  
_Insouciant bel enfant, contre le cœur de ta maman_

_Je t'aime..."_

He quietly opened the gate so as not to alarm her. Her eyes were red, as if she'd been crying, and her cheeks were flushed. She gripped the blanket around her shoulders and turned her head towards him. He put on a small smile. She simply turned her gaze back to the ground.

"May I sit?" he asked. She nodded solemnly. He brushed the snow from the bench and sat down. "Troubled night?"

She sighed exhaustedly. "Mm."

"Euh..." he cleared his throat. "I could use some assistance in gathering ingredients." She glanced up at him. "For my elixir."

She nodded. So, he stood and offered his arm to her. She wrapped hands around it, making his heart race. Tiny floating lights danced around her, making her hair shine like gold. He swallowed sharply and led her further into the garden. The rose bushes grew more dense and thorny, gripping her blanket. She tugged at it, trying to free it, but she fell backwards. Matthieu dove to catch her.

"Are you alright?"

She nodded. Her tiny body shivered without protection. Without thinking, he pulled his scarf from his neck and wrapped it around her shoulders. She clutched it over her chest, eying it curiously.

"D-Don't worry," he stammered. "I had it washed."

She looked away, her cheeks turning a delicate shade of pink. He gently guided her further into the garden until they rested by a large, thick ivy grove. He snatched a nearby basket and handed it to her, then kneeled down by the ivy. She watched him part the coarse ivy, revealing a grotto-like area in the center. The moonlight illuminated the area inside, a hole punctured through the top. Strange plants with intoxicating smells and colors bloomed inside.

She knelt down beside him as he plucked off the stem of a violet flower. "They're beautiful."

"Yes," he agreed, setting it in the basket. "But equally dangerous. If a normal human were to ingest this, they'd die quite horribly. That's why I have to counteract it with other plants. Cover your ears!"

She clamped her hands over her ears, Matthieu shoving wax stubs into his. He grabbed a particular leafy plant and tore it out of the ground. It wailed like a banshee. He shoved the shrieking root under the flowers and pressed down on it firmly. He removed the stubs.

"Have to be careful around those." Catherine nodded. She tightened her fingers around the basket. He paused, a patch of moly in his hand. "Catherine, what's wrong?"

She rubbed her tired eyes. "I haven't slept well."

He set the white moly in the basket. "Any reason why?"

"Thinking..." she glanced up at him and wrung her hands. "About the nightmares." He abandoned the plants and set the basket aside, bidding her to tell him. She shifted her legs under her.

"My father was...he was a wonderful man. And, I wasn't there when it happened but...he was attacked in the field by bandits. They wanted his wedding band, apparently. I was told that Monsieur Porcher tried to save his life but it was too late..."

She buried her face in her hands. This poor girl; she did not deserve any of this. He reached over to set what he hoped was a reassuring hand on her arm. Without warning, she threw herself into his chest. He was taken aback, not entirely sure what was happening. She wrapped her arms around his waist, burying her face into his robe. This gesture of affection was foreign and unnatural to him. He never felt it before. He sat frozen for half an eternity before he realized she was shaking and struggling to breathe.

He slowly settled his arms around her, and she calmed somewhat. His arms tightened around her cautiously, and his heart climbed to his throat. He couldn't quite point out what it was, but this was wonderfully overwhelming. She turned her head to lay against his shoulder. He shifted slightly, her hair brushing against his cheek. She trembled from the cold.

"Come," He looped the basket through his arm and boldly took Catherine in his arms. She stared at him in surprise. "Let's go inside."

* * *

Matthieu gently set Catherine on a sofa in one of the lower sitting rooms, the basket beside her. He asked her if she was comfortable before going to the fireplace. She couldn't believe she relayed her father's death to him. She'd expected indifference or perhaps a bit of sympathy. She'd been foolish enough to cling to him like a child.

He was so warm when he carried her, and all her nervousness was forgotten. How he couldn't see how childish she was was truly a miracle.

A fire crackled to life, and he moved back to the sofa. "Angel?"

Her heart fluttered a little at hearing this name. But she reminded herself it was because he thought her as innocent, and it was not a name of endearment. "Yes, Matthieu?"

"Are you alright on your own?"

Instead of answering, she reached over and took his hand, careful of her ring. She adjusted to make room for him and settled down on his lap. "Is this alright?"

"O-Of course," he stammered, his heart racing through his body. She smiled and closed her eyes. His arm slipped over her stomach. Her stomach tightened pleasantly. She felt safe there with him, ironic as it sounded. But it was true. She curled up on the sofa with her head in a werewolf's lap, and she fell asleep.

* * *

A small pressure made her stir. She swatted whatever it was away, but it persisted. She peeked behind her eyelids. Melinoe stared at her, inches from her face. Catherine groggily reached up to pet the feline. She purred and hopped onto the back of the sofa, padding over to Matthieu. She pawed his face gently. His face twitched, and he instinctively turned his head.

Catherine chuckled and closed her eyes again.

She awoke five minutes later to Melinoe jumping onto her chest and running out the door. Matthieu sneezed into his arm.

"_GEORGE!"_

"Good morning," she said drowsily.

He stared down at her. "Good morning, Catherine."

She slowly sat up and rubbed her eyes. George rushed past them in the hallway and disappeared. She grinned. "Sensitive to cats?"

He chuckled sheepishly and yawned. "Is it morning? Is there food?"

"There's still time to sleep," she murmured.

"Good!" He stretched his back and set his head on the back of the sofa. Within seconds, he was snoring. Catherine tugged at the scarf still around her shoulders, taking this opportunity to closely examine him. Thick scars coursed down his skin and dark circles hung under his eyes, the years of suffering showing themselves to her. How long had he been forced to endure this? Had he been cursed since childhood? Since birth? She shuddered to think that he'd have to have transformed as a child, how much trauma was inflicted on him.

He shifted in his sleep, his head facing her. Unsure of what she was doing at first, she raised her hand to his face. His cheek was warm...He flinched. She brought her hand back, realizing she was still wearing the ring. She sighed, and she slowly slid it off her finger and set it aside.

She raised her hand once more and set it on his cheek. He felt so fragile, as if one wrong move would make him shatter like porcelain doll. She allowed her hand to rest there just a bit longer.

She began to pull her hand away, but he pressed his cheek into her palm. She froze. What would he think if he woke and saw her touching him? The corners of his mouth turned up, revealing a little bit of fang. So, she let her hand remain where it was.

_To think, _she thought. _If I hadn't decided to run away, I would never have met him. _

She frowned.

_But what if I had really made it to Paris?_ she asked herself.

She leaned back on her heels. She was now beginning to think through it thoroughly. Gilles would have had more opportunity, even if he was much older. The most she would have made it to was a governess. Singing and performing on her own would have been a hopeless endeavor. Teaching it to a young child, it could have worked. But, there was the off chance that wouldn't bring much satisfaction. Music was her passion, not a mere pastime.

She sighed, scolding herself for being so reckless.

"_Catherine?" _She started. Matthieu stared at her with his eyes half-open.

"I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean - " She started to pull away. He grabbed her hand back and brought it closer to his face.

"_Where's your ring?"_

She pointed with her eyes to her ring on the side table. He reached over and gingerly picked it up. He dropped it in her lap suddenly. She shook her head.

"I don't want to hurt you with this," she said. He sighed deeply, his ears twitching slightly. She stroked his cheek again. "You're tired. Go back to sleep, Matthieu."

He leaned into her palm and fell back asleep. She finally relinquished her hand from his face and brought it to her lap. What was she doing? This was highly inappropriately. She shouldn't have been sitting with him, touching and caressing him. Matthieu wouldn't be happy. He was exhausted, and there was a likely chance he would have no recollection of what she'd done. But that didn't make it excusable.

She slid her mother's ring back on her finger and curled up on the opposite side of the sofa.


	17. Mon Royaume pour un Cheval

_**January 19th, 1767**_

Matthieu woke pleasantly on the sofa. Catherine was curled up on the other side, her feet tucked under her and her hair draped over her arm. She was so beautiful to look at. Her hands were delicately folded over each other. He finally knew how soft they were when they stroked his cheek. She was so gentle with everything. It was hard not to admire her. He raked back his hair. This posed a number of problems, more so for her.

This affectionate touch was marvelous, miraculous even. Yet he felt her flinch as he drifted off to sleep. Could she be realizing what she was doing? He shook his head. He supposed it was for the best. Her, to fall in love with a creature like him, would only hurt her. If she did somehow love him, what would that mean for him? Would he marry her and spend his life with her?

He pushed those thoughts away. He couldn't hope for too much. He couldn't bear it. He gazed at her sleeping form a bit longer. She was still wearing his scarf from last night, cuddling into it for warmth. He swatted away the idea of holding her close to him and simply pulled a small blanket from under the sofa. He draped it over her, smiling as she snuggled into it.

* * *

_**January 23rd, 1767**_

Sunlight poured into the old ballroom. The air looked like fairy dust from the lack of use, but Catherine didn't mind for now. She swirled her skirt around carefully.

"What do you think?" Matthieu inquired.

She looked up at the ornate white wood and gold decor. "It's beautiful." She moved over to the stairs leading into the room. "It's a shame it's been out of use for so long."

"Oh, I've never used it before." He waved some dust away from his face. "Never had a reason to. You know, since no one has been here in years."

"Well, it could be made into some good use," she offered.

"_MY KINGDOOOOOOM FOR A HORSE!" _George flew down the bannister and launched into the center of the ballroom, starfish-spinning on the dusty floor. Melinoe scampered over to check on him.

"Well, now we don't have to clean the floor," Matthieu said in approval. Catherine giggled. He ducked his head, a smile creeping up his face.

"Can you either marry the girl or see a doctor, because I don't think healthy people should be turning that colour, Master~." George smirked at them from where he was laying.

Matthieu clenched his hands in front of him. "_I'll wring you dry!"_

Before he could do that, George rushed past him and slid down the bannister again. He crashed into a pillar, laughing. Matthieu shook his head, but Catherine ran up the stairs and sat at the top of the bannister. Matthieu looked up.

"No, not you too!"

"What?" she innocently. "I've always wanted to do this, but my aunt never let me."

"Do it, Catherine!" George cheered. "Do it! Do it! Do it!"

"No!" Matthieu protested, but Catherine whizzed past him and landed on the floor, sliding ten feet away from him. He ran over to her with a look of concern on his face. She laughed. "Angel, are you hurt?"

"Matthieu, I'm fine."

"Come on, Master!" George stroked Melinoe's back. "Try it! Have some fun for once."

He looked back to Catherine. She smiled encouragingly. He sighed. "Fine." He stood up and climbed back up the stairs. He sat at the top of the bannister, eying the way down cautiously. "I don't see the point in this. Won't I get hurt?"

"Where's the fun in staying safe?" George asked.

Matthieu turned to Catherine. She nodded. "You'll be fine. Give it a try."

He held in a breath and his feet left the floor. He yelled on the way and slid a fair distance, snagging Catherine's dress and pulling her with him. He groaned. "I'm sorry..."

She giggled. "Don't be. I'm alright." She pushed herself to her knees. "But you don't have to do that again if you don't want to."

"Are you joking?!" George cried, jumping in front of them. "That was amazing! Haha! If only there were a way for me to see it again. Something to capture that moment in time so I could watch it over, and over, and over again! Something like this should be documented for the world to see!"

As he rambled, Matthieu raised his hand to his forehead, his eyes growing distant.

"Matthieu? Are you alright?"

"Hm?" he snapped his head up, his eyes glazed over. "Oh, I'm alright. Just a...a bit of a head-rush."

She brushed some hair from his face, tucking it behind his ear. His eyes fixed on her, his cheeks flushing red. George came over beside them. "Watch this." He began scratching Matthieu's side. "Who's a good master? Lie down."

Matthieu's leg twitched, and he fell back, laughing uncontrollably. George continued to scratch his stomach. "Who's a good boy? Yes, you are. You're a good boy."

"YOU ARE IN SO MUCH TROUBLE! AHAHAHAHAHA!"

* * *

Catherine sat at the top of the bannister again, after about an hour of prying Matthieu away from George. Now, she was glad he was simply talking to him. George groaned at being scolded at, but she was there to make sure he behaved.

In the middle of their conversation, he acquired a rawhide bone from his vest. Matthieu's gaze fixed on it intently. George tossed it into the middle of the ballroom, prompting Matthieu to chase after it. He slipped on the floor, trying to reach the bone that sat unmoving on the floor.

"I may be smiling," he laughed. "but I assure you, I am very angry! Hahaha!"

George laughed. Catherine slid down the bannister carefully and came up beside him, giving him a disapproving look. George groaned again as Matthieu returned and threw the bone angrily at the ground.

"Do not. _Throw._ That bone! Aga - " George swiftly picked up the bone and threw it. Matthieu spun around in delight. "Oh _yay!"_

The boy laughed harder than before.

"George!" Catherine admonished.

He sighed. "Fine, I'll stop."

"Thank you."

The bone scattered somewhere behind the pillars. Matthieu knelt on the ground, his smile receding. He held his head again, as if he were dizzy. Worried, Catherine rushed over to him. "Matthieu? Are you sure you're alright? You don't look well."

"I'm...I'm fine, just..."

"Have you taken your elixir today?" she asked.

He nodded. "Don't worry about me, Catherine. I'm just...just a bit tired." He started to stand, but he fell back suddenly. He moaned in pain, holding his wrists. Catherine watched in horror as his hands began to grow and twist painfully into paws. She seized him by the shoulders.

"George! Get his elixirs! NOW!"

He flew from the room, leaving Catherine with Matthieu. She drew his face towards hers. "Matthieu. Matthieu, look at me. Look at me, you know me. You know me; Catherine!"

His eyes flickered from green to yellow and back, his teeth grinding to hold back the fangs pushing past his lips. His paws held her arms for support, squeezing them so hard she thought he'd break them. His eyes held shut in pain as his body stretched. His feet tore out of his shoes, leaving them broken on the floor.

George raced back in with a satchel slung over his shoulder. He slid over, dumping out large vials of violet liquid. Catherine quickly uncorked one and shoved it into Matthieu's mouth. He drank it straight down and spat out the vial. Hair began to sprout on his face and neck. She uncorked another and poured it down his throat. Again, he continued his slow, painful metamorphosis.

"Why isn't it working?!" she cried.

His eyes rolled back into his head and he fell onto his back, looking more like a turtle caught on its shell. He continued to scream in agony, his voice distorting into growls and howling. Tears streamed down her face as she desperately tried to uncork another vial. George sat paralyzed behind her. She finally freed the cork from the bottle and drained it into his mouth. The majority ran down his face as it snapped and remolded into a lupine muzzle.

"Matthieu!" she sobbed. "Matthieu, come on! Matthieu, please. Please, come back!" She held his thin, writhing body to her. His claws dragged slowly down the back of her dress. "Please, come back. Don't lose control; come back!"

His grip on her slacked, his arms returning to the floor as he fell limp. His limbs shrunk back to their proper place, his body becoming fuller, and his face returning to normal. He gasped for air, grasping his clothes that were now little more than tatters. She put her hands to his cheeks, his body trembling like a leaf.

"Matthieu, wake up," she urged. "Please, _please,_ wake up."

His eyes flickered open. "_Catherine..."_

She sobbed and pulled him into an embrace. "Matthieu, _Dieu merci! _You're alright! You're alright!"

"_C-Catherine...Mademoiselle...Angel...I, what - ? When - ?"_

"You frightened me, Matthieu."

* * *

He buried his face into her hair, trying to comfort the beautiful creature in his arms. He now became aware that his clothes were torn, and she was crying hysterically. He wrapped his arms over her back, meeting cold, exposed skin. He peered over her shoulder in horror at the deep slashes in her dress. They had not broken her skin, but he'd come terribly close. What had he done?!

She pulled back, taking his face in her fingertips. Tears streamed down her face.

"Catherine, have I..._have I - ?!"_

"No!" she assured. "No, I'm not hurt. Matthieu, what's happening? Are you sure you've taken your elixir?"

"Yes!" he affirmed. "I remember taking it this morning. I don't know what happening! I - " He noticed the three empty vials beside them, and George clutching a large satchel. "How many...Oh no. God, no!"

"Matthieu?"

He pulled himself to his feet, struggling to keep his trousers on. He need to get away, away from here, away from _her. _He limped up the stairs and out the door, ignoring her desperate calls to him.

He fell into the foyer and crawled back to his rooms, barricading himself in his sacred place. He had to be sure Catherine had not followed him. He couldn't bear to let that happen again. He'd come so close to killing her, and even though he knew she was more than capable of protecting herself, he couldn't live with himself if she died by his hand.

_"What are you doing?!"_

He gripped the doorknob. "I don't want to talk to you."

The witch's voice echoed from the pool. "_Too bad! What now? You're just going to run away from her?!"_

"I need to protect her," he explained. "And I'd appreciate it if you'd leave me be!"

"_You're pushing her away. You're hurting her."_

"So long as she's safe!" He fell to his knees. "You couldn't possibly understand. I have to keep her alive. I need to keep her safe!"

_"Then why don't you ask her the obvious? Why don't you make her leave?"_

"I can't!" he moaned. "I can't, I...You could never understand the situation you've put me in."

She was silent for a moment. "_Do you love her?"_ He said nothing. "_I asked you a question, young lord. Do you love her?"_

A sickening creak came from his hand. The doorknob snapped off its bolts and molded in his hand like clay. He whirled around, eyes widened and yellow with anger, and thrust the metal knob into the water. Her image disappeared. He fell to his knees, anger welling up inside him. He cursed this witch for doing this to him. He cursed his family, his family whom he'd never had a chance to love. Most of all, he cursed himself.

If he weren't such a coward...he sighed. He hated to admit that he needed this girl. But her presence made him feel like he was worth something, that his existence wasn't completely meaningless. The way she spoke, the way she moved, the way she touched him...she was so gentle. The entire world lit up when she entered the room. He wanted to have that all the time.

He wasn't sure if that was love or a selfish desire to keep her close in spite of the danger he posed to her.

"Matthieu?"

He spun around. Catherine stood in the doorway. Matthieu cowered like a dog, unwilling to let her see him in this state.

"Leave me be," he begged. Her hand settled on his shoulder. "Catherine, please. I'm a danger to you. Can't you see that?! I'm...How can you possibly live here knowing what I am?"

She bid him to look at her. "I know exactly what you are."

He lowered his head in shame.

"You're a man who is frightened of himself."

He blinked, and shook his head furiously. "No, I'm...I-I-I'm a monster! I've taken innocent lives and ruined countless others. I've treated you horribly. You could have died because of me, and I don't have anyone to blame but myself! Tell me I'm wrong!"

She stared at him calmly, waiting for him to relax a bit. She glanced at the ring around her finger and, to his shock, slid it off and set it aside.

"Catherine."

She pressed her hand to his mouth to silence him.

"There is a great deal you haven't told me. And, some parts of it I have no right to hear. But it sounds to me like if we don't talk this through, this may never recover." She brushed some hair from his face and tucked it behind his ear. His heart skipped a beat. "Now, tell me. Did you want these people dead?"

"No!" he exclaimed.

"Do you remember killing them?"

He shook his head. "No, not completely."

"Matthieu, when you change into _La Bete, _that is not you. You have no control, and that is not your fault."

He cast his eyes away from her. "I'm cursed for a reason, Angel."

She sighed. "I thought as much. But, do you think you deserve this punishment?"

He held his arms over his chest to hold his emotions. "No...but yes. I was not a good man in my youth."

She took hold of his hands, staring at them uncertainly before returning her focus back to him. "I was able to see that when I arrived. You were angry, but not towards me. And, you knew no other way." He bowed his head and nodded. "I don't care who you were, Matthieu. What matters is who you are and who you want to be."

He peered down at their hands. "Catherine, without my elixir, it won't matter who I am. And what I will be is a monster." He squeezed them gently. "Catherine...I'm dying. With each time I transform, the less control I have. And, some day very soon, I may never come back."

She shook her head in disbelief. "There must be a way to break this curse on you. Every curse has an escape clause, so there must be one for you!"

_True love, _the witch said. He contemplated telling her the truth, and perhaps breaking the curse now with a stroke of good luck. But he didn't, and not to trick her or use her in any way. This burden was not hers to bear. She was no tool to his enchantment; she was his friend. He had to spare her from this.

"Death," he answered.

"You're lying!" she hissed. "I know you are. How can you talk of yourself like this?!"

He shook his head despairingly. "It's what I am, Angel."

"Matthieu."

He slowly moved to embrace her, burying his face into her soft hair. "I'm sorry, _ma amie__."_

She clutched him tightly to her. "But, you're still here now. I can't leave you yet."

He smiled at her dedication. How she could see any goodness inside him, he could never understand. But he hoped that, even during his last moments, he could give her some happiness here.


	18. Un P'tit Baiser

**_January 25th, 1767, Chastel_**

The old man huffed raggedly in the old chair. Jean-Charles loomed over him disappointedly. He'd allowed him a week between sessions, but he was being too persistent. He plucked the leech from Gilles's wrist.

"You're stubborn, old man. I respect you for that. But you are testing my patience."

Gilles bowed his head. "I'm telling you, monsieur. I don't know where she is. I haven't seen her in months. I don't even know if she's alive."

Jean struck his hand across his face. "Do you not know, or do you refuse to tell us? What have you done to her?!"

"Nothing!" he cried. "i've lost so much blood already...what shall you do to me now? Kill me?"

Jean stood back and contemplated. "Kill you, eh? Without reason? Why, how unreasonable do you think I am?" The door to the dark room opened. Victor and Clement hauled a large trunk into the small space. "Where have you idiots been?"

"Sorry, boss," Victor said. "We would have gotten here sooner, but Clement needed to use the washroom."

"There's nothing manlier than going in the woods!" Clement argued.

Arnaud hopped off the trunk they'd been carrying. "I rode on a box!"

The other three men cowered a bit as Arnaud scurried off on his hands into a dark corner of the room.

Jean-Charles turned to the trunk and gave it a knock. "Strong wood, even with all these months of lying about in the woods." Thomas handed him a crowbar, and he drove it into the gap. He pried it open within minutes and rummaged through the contents. He lifted out an old, worn axe.

"This yours?"

Gilles lowered his head. "It was in case she lost hers."

"_Patron, _look." Thomas dug out a nightgown, stained with splotches of red. Jean's face twisted into one of hatred.

"You...You killed her?!"

"No!" Gilles cried. "No, it's red mud! I never killed. She's alive, somewhere. I know it."

Jean-Charles exchanged looks with his lackeys. This old man had finally gone insane. "We could send you to hang for this."

"No, you have to believe me! She's somewhere in the woods; we have to find her!"

He clutched the axe in his fist. "I could kill you now."

"Please," Gilles begged. "I did her no harm! You must believe me!"

Jean turned back to the others. "Should we believe him, boys?"

Victor and Thomas voiced their disapproval, Clement shaking his head. "As much as I believe I can survive looking Arnaud in the eye."

Arnaud launched onto him and began scratching at his face. Clement's screams were muffled by Arnaud's stout body on his face. Jean faced the old man again. "I will give you a fortnight to confess. If you confess now, I will let you free at God's mercy. If not..." He cocked his head.

Gilles swallowed. Jean smirked, turning on his heels and leaving the room. "Let him have some food. He'll need to be healthy when he decides."

* * *

**_January 31st, 1767, La Maison du Loup_**

Catherine set the tray of tea on the table. The fire crackled in front of Matthieu, who looked worse for wear given his situation. She pressed the back of her hand to his forehead. "How are you feeling, Matthieu?"

He groaned softly. "_My head is pounding..."_

She handed him a cup and saucer. "Here. Drink some tea, it'll help you sleep."

He sighed. "_I don't want to sleep."_

She poured some cream into it and sat down beside him. "Don't be like that. I'll stay with you until you feel better. I'll even put George into little doctor's attire~."

George whipped his head around. "What?"

Matthieu sipped his tea. "Catherine, no one wants to see that."

"I do~!" she squealed.

He sighed. "I suppose asking you to leave is out of the question?"

"Does it look like I'm leaving any time soon?"

He sipped his tea again, glancing to the side. "No." He gazed back up at her, staring at her with intensity she hadn't dared to see before. "But promise me you'll stay safe."

She nodded. "I promise, Matthieu. Please don't worry yourself over me."

He scoffed, clearly offended by her statement. "I beg your pardon?!"

She sighed exasperatedly. "You know what I mean, Matthieu. I'm more worried about you in this moment than I am for myself." She pressed him back into his chair. "Just lay back and try to relax. Without that elixir working, I believe you're more vulnerable than you care to admit."

He opened his mouth to argue, but sighed and leaned back into his chair. She pulled a blanket over his legs. "Please, try to sleep?"

He stared pitifully at her before nodding. She rose from her chair, setting a kind hand on his shoulder. "I'll be right back. George will look after you while I'm gone."

"What?" he asked in dismay. "But where will you be?!"

She headed for the door. "I'm going to fetch something to read. I won't be long." She turned to George. "George, don't do anything foolish."

The boy looked up at her in confusion. "Catherine, do you think I'm capable of anything else?"

She bent down to his level. "Let me say it this way: Matthieu is unstable right now and if he gets angry, it will be your funeral. Literally. So, please, please, _please _try to behave yourself!"

George slowly peered over his shoulder at Matthieu. He glared at him, gripping the arm of his chair slightly. George turned back to Catherine and nodded obediently. She patted his head. "Good boy. I won't be long."

* * *

She left the room in a hurry. Leaning back, Matthieu sighed. Left alone with an idiot for even a minute was agonizing without her. At least she could control the boy. He turned his head, George immediately beside him with wide eyes.

"Whatever it is, no!"

George grumbled. "You didn't even know what I was going to say!"

"Exactly," he said. "But coming from you, I know it can't be anything smart." He turned himself around.

George followed him. "I have plenty of smart things to say. For example: manticores have three rows of teeth and a tuneful bellow that sounds like a trumpet."

"As fascinating as that sounds," he remarked dryly. "I'd rather you crawl into a corner and stare at the wall in silence." He flipped onto his other side.

George rounded the chair to look him in the eye again. "What would Catherine say if she heard you say that?"

Matthieu scoffed. "She'd say to behave yourself, _George._" He moaned. "Please, leave me be. I'm in no condition for any nonsense." He gulped down his tea and pulled the blanket over his face.

"No nonsense, eh?" He was silent for a moment. Matthieu, thinking he'd finally found peace, closed his eyes. "What about Catherine? Is she considered 'nonsense'?"

His eyes widened with fury. He flung the blanket from his face. "How dare you speak of her like that!"

George frowned. "I'm asking a question. Is she nonsense?"

"_NO! _She is the furthest thing from nonsense, and you have no right to speak of her in such a manner!"

He smirked. "So, that gives me the right to discuss her with you."

Matthieu averted his gaze, hoping to mask the growing color in his cheeks. "That's...she'll be back soon. I wouldn't dare speak of her without her knowledge."

"Oh, I think you would~," George teased. He glowered at the boy. Was this some kind of joke to him? To torment him when his feelings for this wonderful woman were so complicated and uncertain? He gripped the chair, wincing at the claws slowly extending from his hands.

George's sly demeanor fell, his arms crossing over his chest. "I care about her as well. You know that, right?"

His grip slacked, his claws returning to where they had been before. He cast his gaze to the fire, unwilling to relay complex emotions to his housekeeper's son. It was true; he did care for her. He had grown to care for her more than he could ever put to words, which is why he'd never tell a soul.

"George, you're her friend. But you couldn't possibly understand the situation I pose to her, to everyone here."

"Do you care for her?"

He didn't ask if it was love, thankfully. He still didn't know for sure. But care for her, he did.

George grunted in frustration. "Answer me, master! Do you care for her?!"

"_More than anything!" _he declared. "But do you not see how dangerous that is for her?! I can't keep putting her in danger because of me!"

"Then why keep her here?!" he questioned sharply. "If you know you're such a threat?"

"YOU COULDN'T BEGIN TO UNDERSTAND!" Matthieu snarled, his nose flattening, his teeth elongating, and his claws extending into the stuffing of his chair. George stepped back a bit, frozen in place while he waited. Matthieu inhaled deeply, grasping the back of his chair for support. His limbs trembled with the pressure as his features returned to normal. "...I don't want to hurt you, _mon garçon._"

George approached him slowly, pulling the blanket up to his shoulders. "Do you think she could break your curse?"

"How did you - ?"

"Mother told me everything when you first attacked us last month." Matthieu winced at the memory. "She didn't dare tell Catherine."

He nodded. "Good."

"Are you trying to break the curse with her?" Matthieu shook his head, then nodded, the shook his head again. "Which is it?"

"I'm not certain. But, I know I could never force her to love me." He shuddered at the idea. "How would I be any better than the man who tried to marry her in her village?"

George knitted his brow with incredulity. "She told you about that?"

"She told _you _about that?!" he shot back.

He shook his head and rolled his eyes. "We talk a lot, Matthieu. I think that's a sign she truly trusts you."

"What are you implying, George?" Matthieu asked.

George rubbed his arm uneasily. "Well, if you're not willing to let her go - as in, _order her_ to leave - then I see one other option. Just tell her how you feel."

Matthieu's stomach tightened unpleasantly. Everything thought he had screamed "No! Absolutely not!" He couldn't even decipher what these feelings were, much less express them to her. He shook his head furiously.

"No! No, absolutely not! NO!"

George scowled. "Well, where does that leave you?"

He growled, beginning to sound more animal than human. "What am I supposed to say to her?! I don't even know how I feel about her!"

"You care for her, right?"

"Yes."

"Do you want her to stay safe?"

"_Yes!"_

"Do you want her to stay with you?!"

"**_YES!" _**he finally admitted. "Is that what you wanted to hear?! I want her to stay! But, I want her safe more."

"At least tell her that," George advised. "She cares for you just as much, I'm sure. I think you should tell her."

"Tell me what?"

The two spun around. Catherine stood in the doorway with a stack of books in her arms. Matthieu stuttered, trying to find an answer. His face began to turn red.

"That - That you should give your voice a rest until you two go back into the garden." George broke in, winking at Matthieu.

Catherine closed the door. "Oh?"

"Euh, _oui!_" Matthieu proclaimed. "I...I've prepared something special."

She moved over and set the books on the tea tray. "Later. For now, you must rest." She tucked his hair behind his ear, a gesture he'd come to adore from her. He nodded, smiling at her touch. "Has George been behaving?"

He glanced over at the boy, who had gone white as a sheet. He chuckled. Apparently, Catherine's wrath spared no one if they deserved it. "He's been agreeable."

She sighed. "That's a relief." She sat back in her chair, opening a book on her lap. "Would you like me to read to you?"

He nodded eagerly. "Of course."

He sank into his chair, listening to her rich, angelic voice flow over the pages of the book. He tried to follow the story, but he was too distracted. Now that the fire's glow hit her face, he could see features he'd never noticed before. Her hair tucked behind her ears with pulled back as usual, but crinkled over her shoulder. He noticed how her nose scrunched up when she read something particularly funny, and there always seemed to be a smile in her eyes. That innocent soul always lingered behind them, reminding him pf why he always called her 'Angel'.

In time, he stopped caring about the story and simply listened to her voice. He felt his eyes grow heavy as she reached the midpoint of her book. He briefly lamented that very soon, possibly in the coming weeks, he would cease to remember her, or Mrs Townsend, or George, even the damn cat! If his curse were under his control, now he truly wished he could break it.

He lapsed into sleep before he could think any more.

* * *

**_February 1st, 1767_**

Matthieu took his time preparing for the "event" George had arranged in the garden. The only idea he could think of was another song, something he was still a bit apprehensive to do. He could do it, sure. But his strength was sapping by the day. His fingers were growing stiff, and his claws had begun to hinder the strings on the neck of the guitar. He considered letting the roses do the work, but he selfishly insisted on providing music for her. By lunchtime, he managed a few chords.

He wandered the halls, his guitar clenched in his hand.

"Frustrated, are you?" Mrs. Townsend tucked the rag she was using on the windows into her apron.

"Mrs. Townsend, I - "

She held up her hand to silence him. "I know, dear. It's taking quite a toll on you."

He held his hand to his face and flexed his fingers. He winced at the effort. Mrs Townsend took his hand gently. He sighed despondently. "How can I do this for her?"

"You're too stubborn to give up now," she pointed.

He nodded. "You're not wrong." He brought up his guitar, barely strumming it with his claws. "Will she enjoy it?"

"She'll enjoy anything you give her, as long as it's thoughtful."

He fell against the wall and slid to the floor. "I'm losing my mind over her, aren't I?"

She patted his shoulder. "That's for you to decide. When you have children, that is a different matter - "

He leapt to his feet. "Alright, thank you! Thank you, very much." He squeezed the neck of his guitar. "I suppose it's time I meet her there."

She patted his shoulder again. "You'll do fine, my boy."

He smiled at her encouragement and rushed downstairs towards the gardens. He hoped she wasn't there yet, to give him a bit more time to prepare. To some dismay, she was there. That quickly turned to joy when she noticed his presence from behind the gate and smiled. He stepped inside, drinking in the beautiful sight. Her dress just covered her ankles, but was long enough to keep her warm. The deep shade of green set off her hair and eyes perfectly.

She looked down at the guitar in his hand. "Are you able to play it?"

"Oh!" he remembered, bringing it up to his chest. "I...I can try."

"Matthieu, your hands. Aren't they - ?"

"Catherine," he cut in. "Will you sing with me?"

She shot her gaze up to his eyes, her hair blowing into her face. She nodded and turned to the roses. They bloomed open, their petals dying a bright pink. An upbeat flute flowed from one section, followed by deep brass from the section beside it. Catherine clapped to the rhythm.

"_Oh, oh, oh-oh-oh, oh-oh oh-oh oh-oh oh-oh I..."_

He laughed, clapping along with her. Remembering the guitar just in time, he held his breath and played along to the growing crescendo. She spun around in a circle, eyes closed, taking in the melodies around her. His heart leapt to his throat.

_"To feel unbearable never again_  
_Even if I change_  
_Deep inside I'll be the same_  
_We have a tendency to be ashamed_  
_Let me tell you how to_  
_Help me break out of this chain."_

He stepped backwards to step in front of her, enjoying the glowing smile on her face.

_"Oh oh oh..._  
_Just a little kiss will do_  
_Oh oh oh_  
_Just a little kiss from you."_

His hands began to tremble, but he ignored it. He decided now was as good a time as any to join in.

_"Don't you know, it's enough to believe  
That every glass of water will return to the sea  
It's very easy and you may not know  
It's no more complicated than a simple hello."_

She twirled around him gracefully, no indication that she was clumsy at all.

_**"Oh  
So my love, et voilà  
So my love can it be  
To be to be in**_ **_love_**_**  
From one day, two days, three days  
For everyday..."**_

The music stopped, except for the strumming of his guitar. His fingers no longer felt stiff, his hands reaching the chords as perfectly as he remembered. He beamed widely at Catherine, to which she happily reciprocated.

_"Oh oh oh_  
_Just a little kiss will do."_

_"Just a little kiss," _she responded, swirling her skirts around her legs.

He'd never felt happiness like when he danced with her, simply being with her as the roses played them music. He set the guitar aside and ran up to her to join her in their strange dance. She whirled around quickly, her foot snagging the hem of her skirt. He lurched forward and caught her before she could fall backwards. Her cheeks turned a delicate shade of pink as she looked graciously at him.

He helped her to her feet, her eyes still on his.

**_"Just a little kiss from_**  
**_Just a little kiss from_**  
**_Just a little kiss from you..."_**

The music died down, except for one rose which decided to trumpet off playfully. Catherine glared at it, and it made one last squawk before shutting up. Catherine turned so she faced him. Matthieu gasped to catch his breath, no easy feat when staring at her. He slowly leaned towards her, his hands moving under her arms. She drew herself up to him as well. He instinctively closed his eyes and edged closer to her...

She wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him. "Thank you, Matthieu."

His heart dropped from his throat to the pit of his stomach. "Oh...You're - you're welcome, Catherine. You're very welcome."

She pulled back, smiling beautifully at him. He put on his best to put her at ease, not wanting her to see how he truly felt. She slid her ring off her finger and into the folds of her cloak before taking his hands and leading him inside, giggling. It elated him to see her so happy.

But how could he tell her that he wanted more?

* * *

_**Just a Little Kiss **_\- _Vanessa Paradis and -M-_


	19. Pourriez-vous m'aimer?

**_February 5th, 1767_**

It was unusually warm, so Catherine had dragged Matthieu outside for some fresh air. She said he needed it, so he agreed. But really, why would he miss this chance to spend time with her? They stepped out into the garden. She shed her cloak and spread it across the ground.

"We could sit on the bench," he said.

She sat across her cloak. "I feel much more relaxed down here."

"If you insist," he relented, taking his place beside her. He glanced down at her, noticing her hands positioned behind her as she leaned back. Both hands were noticeably barren, her ring absent. "Where's your ring?"

"Euh..." she dug her right hand into some snow. "I left it in my room, in a little jewelry box I found. In case you're wondering, I won't wear it."

"Catherine!"

She glared at him. "I won't hurt you again if I try to touch you! You've been burned too many times by me."

He sighed. "_Ma amie, _don't worry yourself over me. Besides, that ring means a lot to you."

She paused. "...It was my mother's."

They fell into awkward silence, making Matthieu shift uncomfortably. She shook her head determinedly. "But, I still stand by my decision!"

"No way I can change your mind?" he asked jokingly.

She shoved him playfully, making him laugh. He packed some snow together and threw it into her shoulder. She gasped, arming herself with her own ball of snow. He stood up, preparing his arsenal. She bombarded him halfway into his preparation, forcing him to drop his weapons. She laughed triumphantly, but it was short-lived. Matthieu held a snowball as large as a cannonball above his head.

"_Zut," _she cursed.

He hurled it at her, knocking her to the ground. He laughed deep in his chest, the force of it nearly bringing him to his knees. She dug herself out and spat out the snow that had fallen into her mouth. Her hair had come undone, some snow sticking to it and looking like pearls. He rose out of his stupor and knelt beside her, brushing the snow out of her eyes.

"Are you alright, Angel?" he asked gently.

She nodded. "I'd be more alright if you hadn't pummeled me!"

He chuckled. "You think that was pummeling? I could do better standing on my head."

He helped her to her feet, making sure she was steady. "You wouldn't do that."

"Wouldn't I?" he teased. "I think you're just sore, because you lost."

"Who says we're finished?" she challenged, packing up another snowball. He laughed and sent his own at her shoulder. She launched hers squarely in his chest. He staggered a bit, but continued.

George cleared his throat, pretending to blow a bugle to signal them. The two stopped their little snow war. George held a pail in either hand, proudly raising them above his head.

"This be the herald of a new snack dawn!"

He dumped the contents onto Catherine's cloak. Piles upon piles of food...Matthieu's mouth watered.

"I arranged for us to eat outside today," Catherine explained, sitting down on her cloak. "I hope that's alright."

George dug into a ham and egg sandwich. "I love you, Katie-Belle!" He shoved the rest into his mouth.

Matthieu chuckled sheepishly, not exactly knowing if he should add to that statement. He resolved to taking a chicken leg and tearing off a bit. He stopped, turned back to the chicken, and shoved the entire leg into mouth, cleaning the bone dry. He proceeded to shove every bit of food nearest to him into his mouth, barely having the first one in before he grabbed the next one. He shoveled morsel after morsel into his mouth before he finally fell backwards, gasping for air.

Catherine leaned over him. "Matthieu?"

He panted. "_Saint sucré et salé..." _He took hold of her arm. "May we do this all the time?"

She giggled. "Later, Matthieu. Then, all the time."

A large red and white mark ran down her forearm from under her sleeve. He sat up, gently taking her arm. He rolled up her sleeve, showing the hideous scars fully. He returned his gaze to her eyes.

She shook her head. "What happened in the past is not for us to worry about."

He replaced the sleeve on her arm, nodding in agreement. George cleared his throat. "Can you two play kissy-face in another room? I want to save my romance for this lovely lady I met through writing."

"So you've taught the cat to write?" Matthieu asked disgustedly, obviously joking.

"Why do you have to take it there?"

Matthieu laughed, reveling in letting George have a taste of his own medicine.

"George," Catherine cut in. "Could you leave us a minute to talk?"

He shrugged and walked out of the garden, tripping over the threshold.

"You wanted to talk?"

She shook her head. "I could see he was getting under your skin."

He smiled. "Thank you."

"Matthieu..." she lied down across her cloak, her hair in the snow. He laid down beside her. "How have you been feeling?"

He sighed. "Tired, mostly."

"And the transformations?"

He held up his clawed hand. "They come suddenly, but thankfully, they are small."

"When is the next full moon?" she asked, her voice wavering a bit.

"Next week," he answered meekly. "Catherine, if I could stop this, I would."

She grasped his hand. "I know. And it scares me that, after all this time..."

He tightened his hand around hers. "There's still time. I'll arrange for you to go somewhere safe...after I've gone."

She turned her head away. What was she thinking? He reached over and set his free hand on her arm. He wanted her to say something, anything other than this deafened silence.

"How did it happen?" she finally said. "The curse, I mean."

The color drained from his face, his stomach twisting into knots. He sat up, his hands digging into his hair. She shot up.

"I'm sorry!" she cried. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked such a thing out of you!"

"No," he pressed. "You deserve the truth."

She held her hands to his face. He leaned into them, soaking in the slowly seeping warmth. His heart pounded against his ribs like a hammer. How could he relive that night? That horrible night! He grimaced, willing his claws and teeth to remain where they were. It hurt like Hell, but he mustered the strength to speak.

"I...I was a young..._younger_ man. At that time, I was renowned in Paris for my symphonies. I enjoyed parties and presenting my music like...like how George loves that stupid cat." He attempted to laugh to find some humor in the situation. She held her stern, worried face. He continued. "I was living alone...my mother died before I could speak. My father was too heartbroken over her death that he was hardly around. My sisters were my caregivers, along with the occasional governess. But they were married off into wealthy families. All I had in the world was my music. And..." his ears turned red. "my admirers..."

She furrowed her brow, staring at him through the corner of her eye. He cleared his throat.

"I was ... not very kind to those around me, Catherine. I've done horrible things..." He bit on his lip. He couldn't bear the memories. His mind begged for no more. No more pain! No more nightmares! He began to taste blood.

Catherine gasped, pulling his red scarf from underneath her cloak and pressing it to his mouth. "You can have this back...I had it washed." He replaced her hand with his, tears threatening to rise out of his eyes. He held them shut. No more! He wanted no more! Her hand settled on his cheek. "You don't have to go on."

"Yes, I do," he persisted. "I've...I've had men cast into the streets. I ordered one of the cooks in the kitchen to be shaved because I found my food unsatisfactory. I...I've had children punished for their parents' mistakes."

She gasped, and he flinched as if she had struck him. Had he no dignity? What a fool he thought himself. He was a child; a stupid, selfish child who had no right to take anything of them. They must have thought him dead and were glad of it.

"Matthieu." Her voice drew him out of his trance.

"I suppose..." he swallowed. "I suppose the witch was right to curse me." He averted his gaze from her. "She came to me on the night I presented my first philharmonic. I had planned it to bring the entire place down. I had my wish...even if she was wearing fine clothing and offered her attendance with silver, I was too damn stubborn to let her have a seat. Only because I thought she was too hideous to listen to my music.

"She...she turned into a beautiful woman before my eyes! She transformed herself, and then transformed me." He grabbed his hair, pulling so tight he thought he'd tear it out. "No more! Please! Please, no more!"

Everything from that night came flooding back. The song, the moon, the glint of silver. Those eyes...those _damn VIOLET EYES! _His chest was caving in. He couldn't breathe! Pain pricked at his scalp, his claws extending slowly. His ears stretched between his fingers and his face grew fuzzy. Damn him for all he'd done! Damn him to Hell and let him rot - !

"MATTHIEU!"

He gasped, letting go of his hair. He fell back, suddenly lightheaded. She caught him before he hit the ground. Tears fell down her face, her eyes squinting in an attempt to hold them back.

"Matthieu, you don't have to say anything more."

His entire body trembled. It was over. She knew. What would she think of him now, knowing what he had done? Surely, she couldn't be so forgiving for this! She carefully helped him sit up, examining him for any remaining sign of distress.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry."

She rose to her knees and pulled him into an embrace. It wasn't rejection, but it wasn't any form of acceptance either. She deserved to know what he'd done, but it didn't make the matter any less painful. He buried his face into her neck, shaking like a leaf.

* * *

Catherine held his trembling figure to her, afraid he may shatter if she held too tightly. She turned her head, looking to see a head of wild black hair. She wanted to say something to calm him down, or to say she was sorry. But what was anyone supposed to say in that situation? Anything she thought of, she reasoned, would only make him worse. He would run away, hide, snap at her.

So she said nothing.

"Catherine?" She glanced up. He hadn't moved. "Catherine, say something."

Her breath caught in her throat. "Wh-What do you want me to say?"

"Anything! Anything other than nothing!"

She pondered over what to say. This was no time for aimless rants. She had to choose her words carefully. "Matthieu...what you did was horrible. And, you know that. I know you do. But, I have no idea what to say to all of this, because I can't imagine you doing anything quite so heinous."

"You still think I'm capable of heinous acts?"

"Matthieu," she sighed. "You tried to slap me for singing when you first met me."

He grumbled. "Point taken."

"But," she amended. "I've seen how you've changed since then. And, I really admire that."

He pulled away from her, but remained close to her. "Catherine, I beg your forgiveness."

She shook her head. "I can't."

His face turned whiter than before. "Please, Catherine! I-I...If there's anything I can - "

She tugged his sleeve. "You misunderstand me." He shut up. "I can't give you forgiveness, because there's nothing I can forgive. You have to forgive yourself."

"But, I can't! I don't know how."

"It's not easy," she admitted. "But you have to learn to let go and move forward. And that won't happen immediately. It will take time."

He huffed. "Why does everything take time?!"

She chuckled. "I don't know. But that's way the world works, unfortunately."

He exhaled, his hair falling over his eyes. "When did you stop hurting?"

"Eh?"

"When your father died. When did the memories stop hurting?"

She leaned on his shoulder. "It didn't."

"Catherine?"

She looked up at him. "Yes?"

"_Pourriez-vous...?"_

"Could I what?" She cocked her head.

His pale skin then grew deep red, his mouth opening and closing indecisively. His eyes darted back to the food, and he picked up a pear.

"Could you help me finish all this?"

She glanced at the pear, and she chortled. "Me help you? I think it is you who should be helping me." She plucked the pear out of his hand and took a bite.

* * *

He dragged his hair back, grinning a bit foolishly. He admonished himself inside for backing down. He could have just asked her!

_Right, _he thought. _Hello, Catherine. Fine day today. By the way, I think I may be falling in love with you and I want to spend my life with you. What do you say?_

He shoved half a quiche into his mouth, trying to swallow his thoughts with it. It all sounded so stupid! Love, why did it have to be love?! So overwritten and cliched, and difficult! He hoped this witch was prepared for a show, because she would be sorely disappointed. Climatic ends were only in fairytales.

Catherine coughed suddenly, grabbing a water pouch to wash it down. She laughed as she caught her breath.

"Well, that was exciting."

He set his food aside. "Are you alright..._Katie-Belle_?"

She cringed, shoving him away a bit. "Never call me that again."


	20. La Deuxieme Pleine Lune

**_No more fluff. We get serious now._**

* * *

**_February 12th, 1767_**

Jean-Charles unlocked the small room. His fortnight had been overdue, and he considered himself generous. But now there was no more waiting. He stepped inside, the light casting on the old man bound to the chair. He knelt down in front of him and made sure he was awake.

Gilles glanced up uninterestedly.

"You should be grateful I was caught in family matters. Otherwise, I would have come sooner. Now, tell me what you've done with her!"

He lowered his head. "_It seems pointless to relay the same story."_

Jean-Charles nodded. "For an old ass, you still have some brains up there. Do you confess?"

Gilles hesitated, but then shook his head. _"With God as my witness, I never murdered Catherine DeCiel."_

Jean-Charles straightened, casting the old man a dead look. "I want to believe you, Gilles."

Vincent and Clement rushed in, untying him and thrusting him out of his seat. His legs gave out under him from lack of use, but they dragged him towards the door. Jean stood with complete satisfaction.

"I certainly hope the judge will want to, as well."

"_JUDGE!" _Arnaud shouted suddenly, chuckling.

* * *

**_February 13th, 1767_**

Matthieu made a mental note of everything he needed. Bath, shave, food, trousers, more food, everything to say and when to do it. He peeled back the curtains every few minutes, following the sun as it made its journey across the sky.

Full moon tonight.

He flung them closed again. If he were to break this curse, if she was to be safe, he had to tell her today.

The door knocked, making him smack his head against the wall in surprise. He rubbed it off. "C-Come in."

It creaked open slightly, a head of messy brown hair peeking in. Matthieu groaned.

"Don't be surprised to see me." George leaned against the threshold. "Catherine is worried about you. _More _worried, I should say."

Matthieu scratched his arm, hair begin to crawl down his sleeve. He gritted his teeth, willing the process to slow. The sensation stopped, and he could breathe.

"It's...It's getting to that time," George noted carefully. Matthieu nodded. "Are you going to tell her?"

He sighed, raking his hair out of his eyes. "I...I think I am."

"You think?"

"George, this isn't as easy as one might think. After everything I've put her through, after every compromising and confusing situation I've brought upon her, how can I ask of her to stay? I'm not sure what to do!" He covered his eyes and leaned against the wall. "If I tell her, and she says no, what will happen?"

He heard George's approaching footsteps in front of him. "Well, that's something you have to figure out."

Matthieu growled. "You just don't want to get involved!"

The boy shrugged. "This is true. But, I do have nothing to say about this. You know how I am with romance." Matthieu uncovered his eyes and raised an eyebrow. "Don't you say a word!"

"Leave me," Matthieu begged. "At least for now."

George sighed through his nose, arms crossed over his chest. He turned to leave. "She's waiting for you, so you'd better be prepared."

With that, he left. Matthieu groaned, seizing his hair in tightly clenched fists. He pushed himself from the wall and stumbled into his sacred place, ignoring splintered hole in one of the doors. He needed comfort in seeing her, only not in person. He knelt down by the water.

"Show me Catherine."

The water rippled, and the witch's image appeared.

Matthieu screamed in frustration. "WHY DO YOU KEEP COMING BACK!?"

She rolled her eyes. _"Don't be surprised to see me."_ He swiped his hand at her image, but she still remained. _"Don't bother trying to hang up on me."_

He swiped at her again, and still she stayed. He swiped the water again.

_"Stop - "_ And again. _"trying - "_ And again. _"to - "_ And again. _"IGNORE ME!"_ And again and again and again and again.

He stopped to catch his breath, the witch glaring at him with her arms over her chest.

_"Are you finished?"_

He nodded, still panting.

_"Look at you, out of breath and sopping wet like a dog! You're being such a coward."_

"How dare you!" he hissed.

_"I'm speaking the truth! You hole yourself up in here, asking for only an image when you should be experiencing the real mortal beauty."_ She shook her head in shame. _"I thought you'd changed."_

He gripped the stone edge of the pool. "...Whether or not I've changed will not matter."

_"You think she'll deny your request?"_

"I am...prepared for the possibility," he answered simply. "And when - _if_ \- she does, I've arranged for her to journey exactly where she needs to be."

_"And how, pray tell, do you intent to do that?"_

Matthieu pulled a rose petal from his coat, willing it to glow. It rose out of his hand and curled in on a central point, swirling until it disappeared. The witch went wide-eyed.

_"Do you know how many roses you'd need to do that?! You'll lose your power, your protection! Everything!"_

"I don't care!" he snapped, standing. "I'll do whatever it takes to make her happy." He strode over to his cabinet of empty vials.

_"You can't be serious!"_ she cried from the water behind him. _"You're willing to give up all control so this girl can be happy for you?!"_

He whirled around with small, flat, round vial in hand. He dipped it into the water and capped it closed. He image appeared in the glass, still glaring at him challengingly.

"I'm using whatever control I have left to keep her alive!" He shoved the vial into his coat pocket. "Perhaps you'd like to see the performance."

* * *

Catherine sat outside, her feet in the melting snow. She glanced at the gate for the umpteenth time, growing increasingly impatient. She thought she should seek him out herself, but knew why that would not work. Full moon tonight. He was most likely agitated. If she sought him out, he'd shrink away from her and hide. He had to come to her himself. But sometime before nightfall would be nice.

The gate rattled just as she looked away.

"George, what did he sa - oh!" Matthieu stood at the gate. "I'm sorry. I was expecting - "

"I know!" he interrupted. He took her hand. "Will you walk with me?"

She beamed immediately and stood up. "Lead the way, monsieur."

He guided her deeper into the roses, squeezing her hand. She studied his face. He was tensed, his eyes focused straight ahead. Was he afraid he'd snap? It was a very tense day, but was there something he needed to tell her? Was it serious? He glanced down at her, a reassuring smile spread across his face.

She shouldn't press. No need to upset him further and make the situation worse.

He stopped suddenly, making her stumble a bit. He steadied her before she could tumble. She never asked him to do that, but it was sweet how he never let her fall. He never wanted to see her harmed. He took her hand in his.

"Catherine..." he started, trailing off.

"Yes, Matthieu?" she probed gently. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing!" he affirmed quickly. "At least, I hope nothing is." She furrowed her brow. "What I mean is...Catherine, do you enjoy your time here?"

She nodded. "Of course."

"Do you like this place?"

"I love it," she admitted. "This place has become more of home than anything other place I've been."

"So..." he held her hand more tightly. "would you say that you're happy here?"

"Yes!"

"With me?"

She blinked, heat rising in her cheeks. Was he implying...no! Of course not! Why would he take interest in someone like her? Yes, she'd been kind to him. Yes, she'd taken care of him when he was at his most vulnerable. But she was just a stupid village girl, naive and impulsive and reckless. Surely, he'd prefer someone more ladylike.

"...You've been so kind to me."

His gaze fell to his boots, his grip on her hands slacked. She'd said the wrong thing again.

"Wait, Matthieu," she brought her hand to his face. "I am happy here with you. Truly I am! And I want to help you...but I fear I might be too late."

He gently took her wrist and pressed his face into her palm. Her heart fluttered as his lips parted ever so slightly. Tears welled up in her eyes.

"What am I going to do when you don't come back?" she lamented.

He gently seized her hand in his own. "Catherine, I have made sure you are well taken care of. I can send you anywhere you need to go."

"But...but the snow!"

He sighed. "Catherine, even with this snow, you realize you could have left whenever you wished, right?"

She hesitated, but finally nodded. He'd mentioned it before, but she thought it was because he was pushing her away, or he couldn't live with himself if he hurt her.

"Do you really want me to leave?" she asked.

He shook his head. "Angel, I wish you could stay! But...I can't make that decision."

Was he truly asking her this? She knew her answer immediately. "Yes! I want to stay! If I can help you break this curse, and you can finally find peace. I'm sure I can find another cure than death."

His eyes shone hopefully, and he opened his mouth to tell her something. But she cut him off.

"But, I...I need to know if Gilles is alright." She looked up at him pleadingly. "I don't know if he's still alive. If I could see that he's alright, that'd be enough for me."

There'd be no time to search for him, even if he'd returned to Chastel. She only wanted reassurance that her friend was safe. Matthieu cleared his throat, holding a small, round vial out to her on a chain. She cupped it in her hands.

"What is this?"

"Ask for him," he told her.

"What?"

"Ask to see him, and you will."

She stared at the reflection in the water. It seemed alive almost. This wasn't possible, but then again, neither were lycanthropes or magic roses. She inhaled shakily.

"I'd like to see my friend, Gilles. Please?"

Her reflection faded away. Outlines of several men crowded around a hunched figure, battered and bruised with a burlap sack over his head. He was being carted through the street with his hands tied. The cart stopped in front of an angry crowd, beside an all too familiar stage.

She let out a scream.

"What?! What is it?!"

"They're going to have him hanged!" Tears streamed down her cheeks.

"You have to go to him!" Matthieu ordered, but his voice shaking. "you must go now!"

"But, I'll never make it!"

His face grew determined and he stepped back. "Yes, you will."

As soon as he said that, the roses bloomed and painted black. Their petals began to disintegrate into gold light, swirling around her like a whirlwind. Terrified and confused, she glanced back up at Matthieu. He slowly approached her and handed her a single pale pink rose still tucked tightly together.

"Don't forget me," he begged.

She shook her head furiously. "Wait! Matthieu!"

Her vision was blinded by the flurries of gold around her. She raised her arms over her face to shield it, her ears ringing. She wanted them to stop! She tried to yell for Matthieu to stop, but she couldn't hear her own voice. Her head spun violently, threatening to bring her to her knees.

The lights suddenly dimmed, her feet landing on the ground. The wind stopped and the soft rustling of rose bushes was quickly replaced with jeering and scorning. She opened her eyes. She was in a field, the setting sun falling over Chastel. She shook her head in disbelief.

"But...but..." she peered down at the vial and the rose in her hand. He'd done this for her. She pressed the rose to her chest. "_Merci beaucoup, _Matthieu."

She hauled up her skirts and sprinted towards the village square.

* * *

If one were to look into the garden, they would think Matthieu merely a statue. He stared unmoving at the spot where he'd last seen her, the roses heavy and black. No emotion hung on his face. He simply stared.

The sun had fallen below the treeline. He whirled around and rushed back inside, intent on locking himself in his chambers forever. Mrs. Townsend appeared just as he entered.

"My lord, how did it go?" He ignored her. "My lord? Matthieu?"

"Go to your room, Madame." He said simply, leaving her in the hall. He rushed across the foyer to his rooms, casting George aside as he passed.

"What's your problem?!" he shouted.

Matthieu ignored him as well and marched towards the silver door. He flung it open and stepped inside. He couldn't be bothered to lock it himself. The door closed on its own, leaving him crouched in the dark.

_She's gone..._he thought miserably. _She's gone._

Two pairs of hands pounded on the doors.

"_GO AWAY!" _

"Matthieu?" Mrs. Townsend asked worriedly. "Matthieu, what happened? Where is Catherine?"

Matthieu gasped, gritting his lengthening teeth. "_SHE'S...GONE!"_

"WHAT?!" George cried, banging on the door. "What did you do?! Where is she?! What did you do to her?!"

His hands - paws - dug into the floor. He shook his head, even if it brought him more pain. He couldn't manage this! He just wanted them to lock the door and leave. His feet snapped out of his boots.

"_JUST GO AWAY!"_

"Matthieu," Mrs. Townsend sighed. "Did you send her away?"

He was silent. He couldn't bear to relay the past events. He simply wanted them to leave as he finally died. She knew his silence too well, though.

"Why did you send her away?"

"_BECAUSE I LOVE HER!" _

There. He'd said it. He let the only human being he'd ever loved fly away, and it was his fault. His thoughts went blank, and he embraced the pain of his transformation.


	21. Je N'ai Besoin de Personne

Catherine ran faster than she could ever remember running. She didn't care if her fine shoes were ruined in mud or if her beautiful green dress was trodden over. She had to reach the gallows before they killed him! She clung to the rose and vial, praying for them to give her strength. The glow of torches led her towards the village square, where the dozens of village residents shouted and scorned. She rounded the corner, just behind the crowd. With a burlap sack over his head and a rope around his wrists, beside two other prisoners, a haggard old man waited with a noose around his neck. The executioner pulled the lever, the first trap door opening and sending the man to hang.

She screamed. "NO!"

Everyone turned towards her, their eyes filled with ghostly shock. She pushed her way through the crowd and ran up the stairs. She ran to Gilles and began to remove the rope and sack.

"What is the meaning of this?!"

She turned to Gilles, but realized that this was not Gilles.

"Oh, _Dieu merci! _Thank you, mademoiselle, for saving my li - "

"Oops, sorry!" she quickly amended and replaced the sack and noose. She ran over to the real Gilles and set him free of the rope and sack. His weary eyes focused on his in disbelief. "Hello, _mon ami."_

The crowd began to mutter amongst themselves, surprised to see Catherine alive. She sneered.

"Of course I'm alive! Who said I was dead?!" she demanded.

A presence behind her made her stiffen. She swatted the hand away before he could clasp her shoulder, and she turned. "Monsieur Porcher."

Jean-Charles loomed over her menacingly, yet his face was soft and in awe. She glared at him as he opened his arms for her. "Catherine! You're alive! Where on Earth have you been?! You've been missing for months! You've had everyone so worried. You had _me _worried!"

A great force flung itself into Catherine's arms and began to sob. Sophie rubbed Catherine's back lovingly, and Catherine realized how much she'd hurt her during her time away. She embraced her aunt tightly, she glowering at Jean-Charles.

"I came back for Gilles, after I heard of the horrendous treatment you've given him."

She moved back over to him. He was thinner and much lighter than an old man should be. His skin was caked in bruises. She whispered words of reassurance to him while she helped him to stand properly. She turned to address the crowd, but her gaze fell on Jean-Charles.

"I will be caring for Monsieur Gilles until he has recovered." Her brow twitched with rage as she settled her gaze on Jean-Charles. "I hope everyone will treat him kindly as he rests in my care."

He stared at her suspiciously as she carried her dear friend off the stage and away from the village, away from the prying eyes of the villagers. She adjusted her arm underneath him to ease his step. He stared at her, his eyes filled with gratefulness to her but also confusion.

"Catherine...how is it possible?"

She smiled understandingly. "I shall tell you everything once you are rested. I promise."

A distant, painful howl echoed over the mountains. She gasped, and her heart clenched. The full moon had risen over the Margerides.

"Catherine, what is it?" Gilles asked.

She bit back tears. "I'll tell you later. Come on!"

* * *

**_February 14th, 1767_**

_7:58 AM_

Mrs. Townsend stood guard by the chamber door. George paced back and forth, from sliver to bronze and back. Melinoe followed him, confused. The sun had risen minutes ago, and they had heard nothing from within the chamber for a while. They dared not open the door, fearful of the outcome.

George stopped in the middle of the corridor, his back to his mother. Melinoe rubbed up against his leg.

"It doesn't make sense!" George peered over his shoulder. "Why would she just...leave?"

Mrs. Townsend sighed. "It's complicated, dear."

"She would have at least said goodbye, wouldn't she?"

"I think...he's done something rash again. I fear he may spiral, if he comes back."

George's face tightened. He whirled around and marched up to the door, snatching a decorative axe from the wall.

"What do you think you're doing?!" Mrs. Townsend admonished. She grabbed his wrist. "I won't let you get torn to pieces!"

He snatched his hand away from her. "If I am torn limb from limb, my liver eaten, and my intestines slurped up like noodles, tell the world I died nobly and bloodily."

He ripped off the lock and threw open the door. Mrs. Townsend yanked him back, Melinoe rushing into the room. George wriggled out of his mother's arms and rushed in. She cried out, reaching to pull him back.

The cat meowed gently, rubbing against Matthieu's unconscious body. He was naked, shivering, lying facedown on the floor, but he was human. Mrs. Townsend rushed over to him and draped her apron over him.

"Thank heavens!"

She gently turned him over onto his back, making sure to keep everything below the belt covered. He didn't wake, but tears fell freely down his cheeks. Fresh scratches coursed down his upper body, as if he had tried to tear his own chest apart. His hands and feet were burnt badly. His face twisted in agony, tears pouring onto his wounded face. Mrs. Townsend gently wrapped her arm around his waist, pulling his arm around her shoulder.

"Help me, George!"

George mirrored her and hauled his master to his feet, though feeling a bit overbalanced. Melinoe pushed her head under Matthieu's foot as if to lend a hand. Matthieu coughed, dribble hanging from his lip. Mrs. Townsend grunted and pulled him towards the door.

"Mother!"

"What?!"

"The apron fell."

She groaned. "Well then, don't look down. Keep moving him. We haven't got far."

They dragged him out of the chamber and into the corridor. He slumped a bit against George, whimpering into his ear. George hitched him back up, and his head hung forward. His tears dropped onto the floor. George huffed.

"Pull yourself together, man!"

Mrs. Townsend opened the gold door and hauled them both inside. She set him in front of the fireplace and set some wood in the hearth.

"George, be a dear and fetch some hot water. His wounds need tending to."

George nodded and sprinted from the room. Mrs. Townsend knelt beside the fireplace and struck a match. The fire lit within minutes, providing some much needed light and warmth. She turned back to Matthieu and brushed some hair from his face. He stirred, turning his head.

"_Catherine...?" _Mrs. Townsend sighed and stroked his cheek. His eyes opened halfway. _"Where is Catherine?"_

George ran back into the room, water splashing onto the floor. "Oh, damn! He's awake."

He set the pail by the fireplace and dropped in a rag. Mrs. Townsend carefully wrung it out and dabbed Matthieu's fragile skin. He hissed in pain. She dipped the rag into the water again. She hoped the pain would sober him into remembering. She didn't think she could bear to remind him of what he had done.

George scooped up Melinoe to pet her. "Half the plants in the garden are dead."

"_I had to do it..."_ He moaned as she dabbed his skin again. "_To send her home." _

"You couldn't have warned her?! Or US?!"

_"Her friend would have been killed!"_ He relaxed when Mrs. Townsend pulled back. _"I had no choice."_

"So, you think saving her friend's life was more important than saving your own?"

He gripped the rug beneath him, turning his head towards the fire. "_Leave me be." _

_"_Master - "

"_LEAVE ME ALONE TO DIE!" _He cried miserably, his hair falling back over his eyes.

George rolled his eyes. "God, what a drama queen."

* * *

George entered his master's room later with a tray of food. It was past noon, but Matthieu was still in bed. The curtains were closed, and only candles illuminated the room. It looked as if he were laying on his death bed with no one to keep vigil over him. George approached the bedside.

"I've brought you some food."

Matthieu shook his head.

"Come on!" George urged. "You need to eat."

He shook his head once more. The boy sighed and set the tray on his nighttable, taking the tray of cold breakfast that had been left that morning.

"I know you're not that weak. You can get up, you just - just don't want to!" He shoved some meat into his mouth. "You should be grateful! You should feel lucky to be alive right now!"

"Why should I?!" Matthieu gripped the sheets, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. "When all my actions have led to this. I've ruined lives, and taken others. I've held you all hostage here. I have put all of you in harm's way, especially hers, and you tell me I should feel lucky?!"

He whipped his head around to face him. "Do I not deserve this pain? Do I not deserve the agony of my snapping bones and splitting muscles? Do I not deserve this dull ache in my chest for all this loss I've caused?!" he sank back into the pillow. "Whatever gratuity you think I owe to the world would not do me good. I'm a creature of darkness, and by the next full moon I'll have damned us all."

George slapped his hand across his face. Matthieu snatched his wrist. "George!"

"Get a grip on yourself, man!" He yanked his hand away. "She'll come back. And when she does, you'll greet her with respect and dignity."

He sighed. "What makes you think she's aching to return?"

"I just know. You need her."

"I don't need anyone anymore."

Finally fed up with his master's behavior, he flung the covers off him, but recoiled. "Honestly! Put on some pants!"

* * *

" - And then I was back."

Catherine tied the last of the bandages around her friend's leg. She adjusted the pillow Gilles laid on and pulled the blanket over him.

"It all sounds like something from a storybook."

Catherine chuckled. "I suppose it does, doesn't it."

She turned to the window, the sun high above the fields. Her heart dropped like a stone when she thought of Matthieu's fate. He could be dead, lost to _La Bete _for all eternity. She moved to the table by the window, the rose in a small vase with the vial beside it. She scooped the vial up by its chain.

"_Mon ange?" _

She looked back over her shoulder. Gilles gently urged her closer. She stepped closer to him, showing him the vial.

"I'm afraid of what I might see if I ask for him." She sat down on the bed. "I don't know if his mind has succumbed or if he is still human. I don't know if he is torn apart or happy...I don't know which one would make me feel worse."

Gilles raised his hand to her cheek. "What do you mean, _ma cherie?"_

She sighed. "You see, when the roses sent me back, I had left so quickly. It was as if he couldn't bear to have me there another second. What if...what if he is angry with me, for leaving him?"

"_Mon petite ange." _He drew her nearer to him, her hand coming to rest on his. "This young man has cared for you so well these past months, and thus he's cared enough to send you home to me. If he were angry with you, then he never cared at all."

She gazed down at the quilt, sadness hiding behind her eyes. "Gilles...what should I do?"

"What do you think you should do?"

She grasped the hand that had rested on her cheek. "I don't know! I've returned to save you from a wrongful death, but I have also returned to a promise I never made. I know I can never go back to that life. But I cannot leave you, nor do I have any assets to my name. All of my belongings are left at _La Maison."_

"You must decide what you want, Catherine." He leaned forward and kissed her forehead. "Your life is in your hands."

"But what can I do?" she hung her head.


	22. À Quoi ça Sert?

_**February 20th, 1767, Chastel**_

Catherine pulled the scarf around her neck.

A week had past since she'd left. Gilles was recovering slowly, but was getting better nonetheless. Through her time she'd returned, she never left the sanctum of her mill. She always tended to Gilles, stoked the fire, made the meals, anything to keep herself busy. If she were to leave the mill, she shuddered at the thought. She poured a small amount of water into the vase holding the rose. It had remained budded, thriving given it being away from home. But it hadn't changed. No petals were withered or dried. It was as if it had been cut that morning.

She couldn't hide much longer. Fire wood was running low, and they needed more food if Gilles were to recover. She fingered the bare space where her ring had been, remembering she had left it at the manor. There was no way she could go back now...as much as she wanted to. She didn't know if Matthieu was alive or dead. She was too afraid of what she might see in the vial of water. Besides, she was needed here, to care of Gilles.

She yanked a cloak around her shoulders, pulling up the hood and wrapping the scarf around her face. Hopefully, no one would recognize her. She turned back to the mill and called out "I'm going into town!"

"Be careful, _cherie!"_

She sighed. She hoped she would be.

She pulled open the door, wind gusting in her face. She held the scarf in place as she marched towards the village. Her head hung low, dreading being seen by the residents or seeing them stare. She swallowed her fear and approached a vegetable stand.

"Are you new to town, mademoiselle?" the attendant - a young boy - asked.

Catherine smiled. He reminded her so much of George, apart from his average stature and shoulder-length blond hair. She missed his silly antics, his constant ramblings to Melinoe, his knowledge of witchery. She chuckled and shook her head. "No, but, I have been rather new to this town for quite some time."

She thanked him, handed him some money, and went about her business.

She made sure not to overstay the small welcome she'd been given. Someone would recognize her eventually. Once she had collected everything she needed for now, she rushed back towards her mill. Every so often, she glanced over her shoulder to see if she was being followed. If she was so much as seen by Jean-Charles, she'd -

She ran into something soft.

She took a tentative step back and looked up at the man in front of her. Jean-Charles stood with one hand on his hip and the other resting on the holster on his belt. He smirked. "You're not fooling anyone with that disguise."

Catherine refused to answer, instead trying to walk around him. He hastily stepped in front of her.

"Don't ignore me, Catherine! Talk to me! Where have you been?"

"I don't see how it would matter to you," she responded, ducking around him to leave. "I'm alive and well and I will be leaving as soon as Gilles is fit to travel."

"Catherine!" he roughly seized her shoulder. Without thinking, she spun around, grabbed his wrist, and twisted it around before delivering a swift kick to his groin. He grunted at the blow, but he was still standing. "Woman, are you mad?!"

"I've told you before, Monsieur. I am not your wife. I will never be your wife, and any arrangement you've made to suggest otherwise can be canceled. You've been wasting your time."

She whirled back around and started back towards her mill. He called after her. "What's happened to you? Have you been hurt?! Who has done this to you?! Catherine! Catherine DeCiel, come back at once!"

* * *

**_February 23rd, 1767 _**

Catherine tucked the blanket tighter over Gilles's body. Her father's bed hadn't been used in nearly a year, but she couldn't let Gilles sleep on the floor.

"Do you need anything else?" she asked.

"No, thank you." She stood up and started to leave. "You're in love."

She stopped in the doorway.

"Don't try to deny it. You've been sighing all week." She peered over her shoulder, him smiling knowingly. She slowly stepped back and returned to the bed. "Just as I thought, _ma cherie."_

"Have you ever been in love, Gilles?"

He nodded. "Of course. It's not something you tend to forget."

Catherine's head fell into her hands. "I know that..."

"Strapping young men are so difficult to tame, and even more so to understand. But once he gives you his heart, he'll never let you go."

She blinked slowly, knitting her brow. "Gilles...?"

He chuckled. "We're not perfect people, Catherine. Our Christ gave his life so we could sin, and so we have the right." He set his hand on her arm. She hung her head over her legs. "Why don't you ask for him?"

The question had lingered in the back of her mind, and she had tried to search every reason why she hadn't. She did want to see him. But, the full moon had passed and gone. He was so weak when she left. What if she looked and she saw him as _La Bete? _Not only at night and roaming the manor, but as an animal in the woods stalking for prey? To know she had left him and caused his descent into madness, when she could have saved him, her heart would shatter. She didn't think she could handle it.

She stood up and again tucked him in. "_Bonne nuit, mon ami."_

* * *

**_February 28th, 1767, La Maison du Loup_**

_"See my face, wet with tears...  
__They're running down my cheeks.  
__Washing over my fears  
__Like rain upon the streets._

_I am a monster but my heart  
is passionate and profound  
And I will sing like April showers  
Singing til my final hour._

_Up here, everything's clear  
I'm looking at Paris  
I know eventually you  
will know the meaning of  
This thing that we  
call love..."_

Cold, hard rain pounded on his back. Matthieu shivered, but at least it felt like something. He needed something other than the painful numbness in his chest. The roses - the ones not hanging black, dry, and lifeless from their stems - were closed tight. Hours had gone by with him trying to use them, but nothing happened. They wouldn't listen to him, and it infuriated him! It infuriated a hole into the ground, and yet he couldn't destroy them. He couldn't explain it, but he needed them.

He bit down on his lower lip, the metallic taste of blood spilling onto his tongue. He spun around and marched inside, ignoring Mrs. Townsend's worried looks. But, instead of heading for his chambers, he made his way upstairs in the opposite direction. Catherine's room had been left open.

He pushed the door open, half-expecting to see her by the window reading a book or staring out at the garden. The room would radiate with her presence, now it was stiff and cold. He moved over to the window and gazed down at the garden he'd stood in mere moments ago. He could see why she'd loved it so much. He couldn't get a view like this on the west side of the manor.

He sighed and turned back to the room. Her nightdress was laid out on the bed, the water on the washtable still and tepid, a book opened facedown ready to be picked up. It was as if she'd be returning any moment. He reached to pick up the book, but his foot hit something hard. He stooped down and picked up the object half-hidden beneath the bed. Slightly rusted and chipped on the blade, Catherine's axe.

He realized he'd only left her with what she had on her at the time. No belongings, no mementos or treasures she had of her own. Just that vial of water and a rose he'd planned on giving her.

_Her ring!_

He set the axe on the bed and frantically searched the room. A small jewelry box rested on the dresser. He flung open the box and rifled through the strands of pearls and gold bangles. His hand stung sharply, and he'd found it. With a piece of loose string, he looped the silver ring and held it aloft in front of his face. He leaned his weight against the dresser, muttering under his breath. He wasn't usually a man of prayer, but he might as well try to repent for all he'd done.

"God...God, please. I don't know if this was a punishment or a test, but whatever I have done, I deserve this. But, please! _Please! _If you are trying to test her, she doesn't need to be tested to destruction. I'll take whatever blame you see fit...let her live. Let her be safe."

His hands snapped and cracked.

* * *

**_March 1st, 1767_**

_1:49 AM_

Catherine laid in bed, wide awake. An icy storm was raging outside, thunder crashing through the thick night air. Everything was crumbling around her. Her aunt still pushed her further and further towards marriage. Jean-Charles was becoming more impatient, and she couldn't understand why he was so stubborn to have her. Gilles was recovering slowly, but it still seemed like too long. The manor felt like a dream or a distant memory. She only wished she could hold onto it.

She glanced over to the rose by the window. Still folded in, still healthy and thriving. She sighed and slipped out of bed. The vase was cold when she reached over and cupped it in her hands. Seeing as how she wouldn't be sleeping any time soon, she slipped on a pair of boots and her dressing gown and scooped up the vase. She crept past where Gilles slept and into the cellar. Feeling around the room, she struck a match and lit a nearby lantern for light.

The vase rested on the table while she fetched some fertilizer from a corner. She sighed once again, her mind wandering back to the manor. If Matthieu was dead...she couldn't bear to think of it. But if by some chance he was alive, could she leave now? Could she take Gilles with her now and go back? She felt her heart pang at the image of him suffering so terribly. Her eyes stung as she poured some fertilizer into the vase, along with some water, and stared at it. Perhaps she should ask to see him in the vial, just to give her some consolation. She simply wanted to see him.

A shrill scream rang out over the storm.

Without thinking, Catherine snatched up the lantern and ran out into the night towards the sound. The rain pounded against her face but she could see just fine. She pushed her way across the field, shoving the lantern ahead of her. The light fell down the hill as lightning struck over the valley. The screaming had ceased, replaced with sickening squelching sounds. She held her lantern out further, terrified of what might happen if she stepped closer.

Lightning flashed again. A large man covered in blood laid on the ground. A tall, slim creature stood over it, thick, wet juices pouring from its mouth. Something, maybe matted fur, hung from its body. The light of the lantern shone on it. The creature turned its attention to her, and she gasped. Instead of fur, torn cloth and a deep red scarf from its body. It eyed her hungrily and growled.

_"Matthieu?"_

The creature blinked, its face softening the slightest bit. She shook her head.

"_I'm too late, aren't I?"_

The beast stepped back a bit, grunting in reply. She lowered the lantern a bit.

A shot rang out over them. The creature sprang back on its heels and sprinted for the woods, disappearing into the darkness. Catherine ran as well, back to her mill and inside where she was safe. She set the lantern on the floor, locked the door, and sobbed.


	23. L'amour est dans l'ame

**_March 2nd, 1767, La Maison du Loup_**

_2:27 AM_

The door to Matthieu's sacred place swung open. The pool rippled on its own, the witch appearing against the water's surface. A figure approached the pool, hunched over and dripping dark liquid onto the floor. It stopped at its edge, dropped to its knees, and fell sideways, breathing heavily. The witch grimaced.

"_You look terrible."_

Matthieu's limbs jutted awkwardly from his body, his torso thin and bony, his paws looking larger than they should be. His face was intact, but horribly lashed and scraped. He turned his gaze to the pool, staring challengingly at the face staring back at him. He suddenly tensed, his limbs retracting and snapping back. His hands and feet turned more humanlike. His physique broadened, but not by much. He relaxed, his eyes closed. The witch shook her head.

_"You shouldn't be trying to fight it. That will only make it worse."_

He sat up, pulling his scarf more tightly around him. "What does it matter?"

Her jaw dropped. _"Don't you want this curse to break?! Don't you want to live to see her again?!"_

He turned away from her. "Leave me be. Let me die."

She rolled her eyes. _"What was it George called you? A drama queen?"_

"I SAID LEAVE ME BE!" He swallowed painfully. He'd been forgetting meals and water lately. And when his stomach begged to be satisfied, he ignored it. He didn't see any point. At least, with Catherine gone...

"_I could show her to you," _the witch offered. "_if you'd like."_

He shook his head solemnly. "It's like you said: why waste your sight on an image when you should experience the mortal beauty?"

She frowned. "_I did not say it like that!"_

"EXCUSE ME FOR PARAPHRASING!"

Her hand pressed up against the water, pushing until she broke the surface. Her translucent form rose from the pool and came to the edge. She turned his head so he may look at her. _"You are lucky to be alive even after the last full moon. And I must say, that was all her doing. She truly was helping. But, if you resign to your fate, you will lose her forever."_

Unfazed by the maiden made from sea foam, Matthieu pulled his head away, biting down on his lower lip to keep it from quivering. He dared not say a word. It was like beating a dead horse; it was pointless. He'd never have her back. He could see she was needed more without him, and he was content to lie there while that happened.

* * *

**_March 14th, 1767, Chastel_**

The funeral for the Elder Monsieur Porcher had begun to disband. Attending the procession was the last thing Catherine wanted to do, but she'd felt obligated to do so. She had witnessed it after all, his murder. She had to excuse herself as the coffin lowered into the ground, with anger and hatred plastered on Jean-Charles's face. She locked herself in her room and slid to the floor. It was reassuring in a way, to know what happened. At least it confirmed her suspicions: Matthieu was too far gone to be saved.

She'd been lucky to hide herself away as long as she did. Jean was busy mourning his father, and her aunt was too caught up in her own frivolous affairs to take much notice other than to offer the Porchers some condolences (in the form of a few pigs). Catherine didn't see any point in leaving the house much, or even leave her room. But many times she had been summoned away from her sanctuary, whether it be for food or work.

Today, Catherine sipped discerningly at her tea in her aunt's sitting room. She felt strangely alien in this lavish setting. The pastel blue wallpaper burst off the wall and into her eyes, blinding her. She concentrated on the tea while Sophie rambled on, talking and laughing and even crying oblivious to her niece's disinterest. Catherine's eyes lifted from her cup to the window. She squinted against the sunlight, her gaze fixing to the mountain above.

"Catherine!"

She glanced out of the corner of her eye, unbothered to even turn her head. Sophie tucked a stray hair back into her updo.

"Catherine, I was saying - "

"I don't care to hear it," she interjected.

"I am talking!" Sophie pressed.

"And I am _not _listening!" Catherine whipped her head around to face her aunt. "I am sure whatever you have to say is important, but I am not interested. Please, _ma tante. _I cannot bear any hasty decisions."

"Honestly, Catherine!" Sophie set her cup and saucer on the table beside her. "You've been home for nearly a month. A month! A month after running away without so much as a note or a goodbye! I did not know if you were alright! Our town did not know if you were alive or dead! What did you expect of me?!"

"I expected nothing less of what you have given me!" She straightened her back, her eyes burning and glowing with determination. "I know what I did was not wise. In fact, it was quite foolish. But I have more than compensated with what I have witnessed! Sophie, what I experienced in those mountains I could have never learned from this village and you know that!"

"_Ma petite, _you do not need to learn anything more than - "

"Yes, I do! That's the whole point!" she cut her off.

Sophie sighed. "_Cherie, _whatever has happened is now passed. Now you must think of your future."

"With Jean-Charles?"

She nodded. "He is your best choice."

"I rejected his proposal for a reason, Aunt Sophie. I don't want to marry that man."

"Well, who then?" Sophie groused. "A family fortune will only allow you so much freedom. I was lucky to inherit anything! But, do you really want to end up like your father?"

Catherine sprang to her feet. "That's enough! I won't stand to hear this any longer." She made for the door, clutching her chest at the growing ache. She expected nothing less from her aunt at this point, but it stung that after all this time, she was still more concerned with marrying her off than her own wellbeing. Had it been her father who welcomed her back -

"Wait." She turned. "What do you mean end up like him?"

Sophie fidgeted. "Your father was a very...common man."

"Sophie!"

Sophie stood up and set her hand on her niece's shoulder. "Catherine, everything that happened was for your own benefit."

Catherine flinched away from her. "What are you not telling me?! What are you talking about?"

She stared at her fervidly, marching right to her face. She felt her eyebrow twitch as her anger grew with every second Sophie remained silent. "_Tell me at once, Sophie Juge. Tell me."_

"..._Ma cherie_,my heart broke when your mother died. The moment I heard of you, I knew I had to bring you in. But I knew your father would not let so easily. Catherine, your mother died so young in Paris. That disease ridden place was the last place I wanted her to leave to and that's where she stayed. With your father. I couldn't have that, and I was not about to make the same mistake with you."

Catherine gripped the door handle. "What are you saying?"

"I...sent a large sum of money to Porcher...to dispose of your father."

Catherine's stomach dropped. The room swayed a bit, but she stood firm. She couldn't believe what she was hearing. Everything she'd been told was a lie. Her father hadn't died suddenly, nor by the hands of strangers. He'd trusted this woman and so had she, and they'd both been fools.

"_How could you?"_

"I-I...Catherine - "

"_He TRUSTED you!" _Hot, angry tears streamed down her face. "_He trusted you and you betrayed him."_

"_Ma cherie - "_

"Don't!" she snapped. "Don't you dare tell me that you did this for me. Don't you **_dare _**think that you saved me!" She turned the handle behind her. "I won't be back."

She ignored Sophie's cries, flinging the door open and sprinting out of the house. Tears blurred her vision, but she didn't once look back.

* * *

**_March 15th, 1767 _**

_7:47 PM_

No more hiding. No more running. Catherine was done with both. She hitched the cart to the horse, preparing the journey for wherever the wind took her. What Sophie had revealed gave her an epiphany: she most certainly couldn't stay here another moment. Gilles was packed and ready, and she had sent a letter to the village on the other side of the mountain requesting work. It wouldn't be an ideal life, but it would be better than this.

She glanced up at the last rays of daylight. Despite every technique she'd tried to forget Matthieu, she couldn't help but think back to him. The vial of water was never away from her person, and the rose he'd gifted her sat unused in a patch of sunlight somewhere. The deep, dark pit in her stomach dug further as she remembered how she'd seen him weeks ago. She could have easily been his next victim and he would have never known. She held her hand over her face. Perhaps she could look into the vial now. It would give her some closure.

She dug the vial from her apron pocket and held it aloft by the chain. Her shaking reflection stared back at her, but also something else. She whirled around.

"What do you have there?" Jean-Charles took her wrist roughly.

She pushed him away from her. "Leave me alone, Jean-Charles." She held the vial to her chest, and realized he was not alone. His friends circled the area, and the attention was beginning to garner a large crowd. She stepped back. "Gilles and I will be leaving now, so if you will excuse m - "

He seized her shoulders, and she froze. "_Mon amor, _I am only worried for you. With my father's passing, there is only more reason to keep you close."

Catherine glared at him from behind her eyelashes. "My aunt told you of me, did she not?"

"You worry her, Catherine. You worry everyone here." He released one of her shoulders to stroke her cheek. "What with all the reckless things you have done, you should be worried. There is a beast out here, and you are in no condition to - "

She slapped her hand across his face, stunning him backwards. "THE ONLY BEAST HERE IS YOU!"

The five men in front of her stared with the same shocked expression. Fury filled her being, so much that she almost did not hear the door open. Gilles stumbled out, having heard the commotion. Why now? Of all times, _WHY **NOW?! **_She wished she had her axe on her.

She held up her arm to keep him behind her, the twins Victor and Clement laughing at this show of compassion. She sneered.

"I do not claim to be any sort of saint," she proclaimed. "But I did what was right for me, and I continue to so. Jean-Charles Porcher, I'm sorry for you father's passing, but I am not sorry that I can never see him again. Not when that bastard murdered my father!"

Jean's face fell into one of surprise, but lifted into one of laughter. Cold, sharp, icy laughter. Her burning rage only grew as the crowd drew closer, and Jean's solid grey stare settled into a calm stupor.

"My father didn't kill Maurice DeCiel, _ma cherie._" He smirked proudly. "I did."

The same feeling she'd felt in her aunt's sitting room returned but with a new emotion: hatred. She hated this man, the very sight of him made her want him to suffer. She wanted him to howl in pain. She wanted him to be hacked to bits and roasted alive. She wanted him to be thrown into the deepest, darkest, burning pit of Hell and wail until his lungs gave. She wanted him dead, slowly and painfully.

She was so in shock, it hardly registered to her that his arms were around her, stroking her back and sniffing her hair. Adrenaline pumped through her veins and she sunk her teeth into his neck. He stumbled back in surprise and Gilles yanked Catherine back from trying anything else. The blond man felt the place he'd been bitten, the crowd murmuring behind him.

"You bit me."

Catherine sucked in a breath to compose herself, never ridding her sight of the heinous man before her.

"You bit me! With your _mouth!" _

She shrugged, unable to respond. He stumbled back away from her and turned to the crowd to see their reactions. He finally turned back to her and waved his arm dismissively. "Mad woman! Get yourself killed if you want."

He lifted his hand, and her heart dropped. The vial, hung on its chain, swung back and forth in his hand. She rushed over, but Gilles held her by the waist. "Give that back! It's mine!"

Jean raised an eyebrow, glancing at the cart. "it seems you have plenty of water for your journey. What's so important with this one?"

"That isn't - Give it back!"

His face twisted into a smirk and he slowly waved it in front of her, taunting her. "You want your silly water back?" He gestured to the large crowd behind him. "I mean, you've made a scene already, you might as well condemn yourself even more. All this crying over trivial little things."

"Damn it, man!" She dove for it but he stepped aside, allowing her to fall on her face. The crowd laughed at the scene. They didn't understand. Of course she looked like a fool. "Please, it's all I - Goddamn it! What does it matter to you?"

Jean shook his head as if he were disappointed. He knelt down in front of her, lifting her chin to meet his gaze. _"Foolish lambs lay waste to the wolves, little girl." _

Cathrine gripped the ground beneath her. Why must this happen, she thought. None of it seemed fair. Nothing around her was fair and it angered her more than the situation. The truth of her father's death, her aunt's betrayal, Matthieu's demise, the stony gaze in Jean-Charles's stare -

The vial!

In one swift motion, she lunged for it. Jean-Charles would not give up so easily, pulling at the chain with all his might and yet she still managed to equal him in strength. The crowd rattled with mixed laughter and murmurs of confusion. Possibly, they were too transfixed by the display that no one stepped forward to stop them. Catherine paid no mind. All she wanted was that vial. All she wanted was Matthieu!

"Why is this so important to you?!" he yelled over the voices of people.

"I just want to see him!" she cried. "I want to see Matthieu!"

The vial in her hand radiated with light, bursting with energy in her hand until Jean was blown back. Catherine shielded her eyes, cradling the vial in her hand. The cork had popped off and mist poured from the opening, displaying a fireplace, a familiar armchair, half a dozen or so bottles of liquor, and - She couldn't believe it.

Barely visible in the dim light, but illuminated by the sunset's glow, Matthieu hung his head low over him. His face was worn, flattened, and wolflike, but his eyes were still green. Still beautiful.

"You're alive," she breathed.

"_WHAT IS THIS WITCHCRAFT?!"_

She now became acutely aware of the crowd backing away in terror, a few of the women screaming in fear. Jean-Charles was at his feet, circling the image, his brow lowered and his mouth hanging open. Familiar anger peaked through his eyes and aimed his gaze at Matthieu.

"Jean, please - "

"Explain yourself, witch!" The crowd jeered in agreement.

"There's nothing to be afraid of!" she pleaded. "I know he looks dangerous, but he's not. He's a great man who's been through so much. He's strong and compassionate and humble...He's my friend." Even as she said it, the word didn't seem right. It wasn't enough to describe what kind of man he was to her, the man she missed.

"You truly are mad!" Jean's voice cut through her thoughts. "What is this - this - this _thing?! _ What in the Devil's name has happened to your sense?! As if you've fallen for this beast!"

She clutched the vial to her chest, glaring to him. _"He is not a beast!"_

His hand clasped around hers, and a hard force sent her spinning. Her face hit the ground harshly, the vial hanging in Jean-Charles's hand. The image of Matthieu loomed over the people like a shadow. He waved it around, presenting it like a horse on display.

"Look at this! This witch and her beast! Ever since she's arrived, this beast has been coming to us by night! And now one of our own is dead! Is this what we want?! Are our people made to perish at the hands of Satan's spawn?!"

The expanse of people backed away in fear as he waved the vial around. Catherine pushed herself to her feet to stop him. They had to know this wasn't true! But their faces grew hard and hateful. The looks in their eyes blazed with fury and she knew she had only damned herself, and Matthieu along with her. Jean seized her wrist with her vial still facing the crowd.

"Jean-Charles, you don't know what you've done!"

He scoffed. "What I've done? Or...what _you've _done?"

The realization struck her like a blow to the head. He was a hunter, a skilled one at that, and she had sent him onto the prey of a lifetime. She heard the cellar doors fling open and Jean dragged her towards it, unceremoniously tossing her in with Gilles following close behind. The doors slammed shut and she heard the lock click from the outside. This was all her fault! With this crowd turned mob, the hunter had every man at his disposal. With enough silver, Matthieu would surely be dead!

And she pulled the trigger.


	24. Bataille pour le Manoir

George sat on his suitcase, waiting for his mother to arrive with the rest of their belongings. _Go back to England,_ the master said. _It would be safer,_ he said. He wanted to believe him. But he knew he was being foolish. Acting as if she never came wouldn't solve anything. Melinoe sat on his foot and meowed up at him. He smiled sadly and scratched behind her ears.

"What do you think I should do, Melinoe?" The cat cocked her head to the side. He sighed. "I can't just leave him. As much of a pain in the bum as he is, he can't drink himself into oblivion."

He stood up from his luggage and marched down the narrow corridor towards the western wing, Melinoe at his heels. He slowly opened the gold door. The room was in more disarray than when he'd last seen it. The wallpapers were shredded, feathers flew out from the demolished bed, and the windows were covered in wooden planks to block out the light. The only movement was the fire burning in front of the hunched creature with a bottle in his hand. He slumped in his chair, the only thing left in one piece.

George knocked on the door.

_"Leave me."_

George huffed and he knocked louder. Matthieu hurled the bottle of scotch at him. It shattered to his right, but he didn't flinch.

_"Leave me, you bastard of an Englishman."_

"I'm not leaving," he affirmed. "Not now, or tomorrow, or ever!"

Matthieu gripped the arms of his chair, a horrible cracking sound emitting from them. George marched up to him and grabbed a half empty bottle. Matthieu seized the bottle in his large, paw-like hand, trying to wrestle it away from the boy.

_"Give it back."_

"No."

"_I said, give it BACK!"_

George yanked the bottle away. "I said no!"

Matthieu lunged for him, half his body over the arm. George sprang back in surprise. Matthieu's face was flattened and covered in hair from the lack of a shave, his teeth fanged and his eyes wider and larger than any human pair could be. He seethed with animalistic rage. Melinoe dashed from the room in fright.

George scowled at him. "What would Catherine say if she saw you in this state?"

"_You will not mention Catherine DeCiel - "_

"She's the reason you're moping about, feeling sorry for yourself!"

_"Go away!"_

"I'm not leaving until you get your head out of your ass!"

_"I don't want to hear anymore!"_

"I know you don't but you've **got **to!"

Matthieu returned to his seat in front of the fire, shaking his head. George took him by the shoulders and put him back into a comfortable position. His eyes were empty and hollow.

"_She's not coming back..."_

George sighed. "I haven't heard from her, no. But that doesn't mean she has stopped caring."

Matthieu covered his face, his tangled hair falling over his eyes. _"I suppose it's for ... for the best. She's safe from me." _George smacked him upside his head. _"Would you stop doing that?!"  
_

"I'm trying to knock some sense into you! You know damn well she's never felt safer here, and she has been able to hold her own against you time and time again! You just sound like you've given up on her."

"_No. I haven't."_

"Matthieu, open your eyes! You've given up on everything! Even her."

The chair arm snapped, a wooden block and stuffing clutched in his trembling hand. He dropped the debris, his hand shaking violently as it began to contort. George dove and pinned Matthieu to the chair. He struggled against the much smaller boy, but he was drained. He had no more will to fight. He went slack. George slowly backed away.

"_I'd never give up on her..." _he growled. _"She's got too brilliant a mind, too fair of a soul...She can do anything! All I want is for her to be happy, and she's got it."_

"How can you be sure?"

Matthieu slowly looked up at the lad, tears forming in his eyes. "_If she truly loved me, she would have returned sooner. It's too late now." _He turned his gaze to the sliver of setting sunlight. _"I'm dying, George...I'm losing myself."_

The boy clamped him on the shoulder. "I'm not going to leave you."

_"But I - "_

"I know what you said. And my mother will take our belongings. But until you do change, I won't leave your side."

He took a seat in the opposite chair, now more of a stool.

"_After all this time, why?"_

"Because..." George sighed. "Because no matter how many times you slapped me or called me an idiot, you've been the closest thing I've ever had to a father."

Matthieu hung his head, gritting his fangs against the crippling sorrow. _"Some father I've been."_

"You weren't the best," he admitted. "In fact, you were rather awful. But, it was something, and I'll give you credit for that."

Matthieu sunk back into his chair, the dark circles under his eyes becoming more prominent. He didn't have much longer. And if the curse didn't kill him, his broken heart surely would.

* * *

Catherine sawed quicker than she knew her arm could take. The lock wouldn't give.

"I thought you said this thing could saw through a femur in 28 seconds!"

Gilles stared at her worriedly. "Catherine." She took longer strokes with the saw. "Catherine, stop!" She cried out, the saw dropping to the cellar floor. Blood gushed from her hand. The old man gasped. She staggered over to him, tears streaming down her face.

"Catherine, my dear. Keep calm, and I'll staunch the wound."

She sobbed. "This is all my fault...He's going to die, and it'd be all my fault!"

The rose he'd given her sat on the table, its petals folded in. Gilles grabbed a cloth and wrapped it around her wrist.

"Gilles, I can't let Jean-Charles take someone I care for. Not again."

Gilles sighed, and he looked up at her in sadness and anguish. "I'm so sorry..."

She held his wrinkled face. "Gilles, it was not your fault. There was nothing else you could have done...but ran."

He sighed shakily. "He was a dear friend..."

"I know." She swallowed dryly. "But now, Jean may do the same to Matthieu. And I can't let that happen! Even if Matthieu never turns back into himself...even if he never remembers me again, I must save him. He's my truest friend."

She hung her head in despair, her knees threatening to give out under her. Her sight blurred with tears falling to the ground. She held them closed, bitterly wishing she had never left the manor.

A small light glowed in front of her. She ignored it, thinking it was a candle Gilles had found. But another came, then more. She opened her eyes and snapped her head up.

The rose on the table had slowly opened, light dissolving from its petals one by one. A few specks of light wrapped around her wrist, closing the wound before her eyes. The rest traveled up the the locked door and swirled around and inside the lock. The lock shook and rattled violently until it finally snapped, and the doors flew open. Catherine stared in awe, then turned back to the rose. Only two petals remained on the stem.

She snatched it up and ran out of the cellar. "Gilles! Come on!"

Gilles slowly climbed out of the cellar. "No, _mon ange. _This is your fight."

She took his hands, shaking her head. "No, you must come with me."

Gilles clasped her hands together. "_Ma petite, _you've been like a daughter to me. Now, I must urge you to fight for your man."

A horse whinnied behind her, beckoning her to ride him. Catherine kissed his cheek and ran for the horse, carefully placing the rose in the side satchel. "Please, take care, Gilles!"

She waved to him and drove her heels into the horse's side. The horse took off into the fast-approaching night, Catherine's torn skirt flowing behind her. She could only hope she made it there before he could be hurt.

* * *

A loud bang woke George from sleep he hadn't realized he'd fallen under. He glanced at Matthieu. He was still sound asleep. Another bang rattled the walls. George leapt to his feet and ran out into the corridor. Someone could be at the door. It could be Catherine!

Mrs. Townsend rushed towards him, frantic.

"Mother!" She guided him back a bit. Her eyes were wild with fear he'd never seen before. "Mother, what's happening?!"

"There are men at the door! Go to the master and get him out of here!"

He obediently sprinted back to the western wing, slamming the door behind him. Matthieu jumped in his seat, but he didn't move otherwise. He blinked blearily, looking around the room as George dragged a stool over to the mantel.

"_What's happening?"_

"There are men at the door!" George climbed up the stool and on top of the mantel, peeling back the curtain. Craning his neck to see past the wall, he could see dozens - possibly hundreds - of men with weapons. A select few held to a fallen tree. They were pounding on the door, obviously the source of the noise, and preparing the break it down. The sun was not yet set, so there was still time. He jumped down from the mantel. "We need to get out of here, Matthieu."

He grabbed Matthieu's wrists, trying to haul him out of his seat. He remained firmly planted in his chair, refusing to stand.

"Matthieu! Now is not the time to be petty!"

Matthieu clenched his hands into fists. He was trembling violently, his emotions welling up inside him. Seeing his chance, George hauled him to his feet. Matthieu stopped shaking for a moment, shocked at this sudden movement. This was quickly replaced by anger for taking advantage of him in his vulnerability. George paid no mind and began to pull him out of the room.

"You can still walk!" George whispered. He dragged the poor man over and set him down against the wall. "Wait here. I'll see if we can escape."

He turned to race up the corridor, but Matthieu grasped his wrist. "George...there's no point. If they wish to kill me, I'll welcome their endeavor. But you and your mother need to get out of here."

George ripped his hand away from him. "We're not leaving you!"

Matthieu collapsed against the wall, his strength all but gone. There was no way he could convince this pathetic shell of a man. He wasn't like Catherine; he couldn't talk sense into Matthieu like she could. He huffed and dragged Matthieu over towards the silver chamber.

"If I don't come back in time," George explained and dashed back up the corridor before he could protest.

The boy entered the foyer, but he was too late. The door burst down, pieces of metal and splintered wood flying into his face. Mrs. Townsend wrapped her arms around him protectively. The men dropped the tree and marched inside. The one in front, a well-built man with blond hair and piercing grey eyes, held a pistol in his hand and a quiver of arrows slung over his shoulder. They stared at each other, George glaring them all down.

_"Exposez votre entreprise, les étrangers!" _Mrs. Townsend demanded, her eyes stabbing through each and every one of them.

The front man stepped closer, his hand on the crossbow hung from his belt. "_Partez maintenant avec votre garçon, madame. Une créature dangereuse est parmi nous, et nous apprécierions le moins de sang versé."_

He couldn't understand what they were saying, but from the way his mother stared this man down, he must have been a threat. She pulled him behind her, unafraid to stand in the man's face. George struggled to see what was going on. The man laughed at the sight of him, making his anger rise even more.

_"Quelle noblesse pour une petite femme faible. Et encore plus pathétique pour un petit enfant."_

He recognized the word "pathetic", and whether it was directed at him or his mother was none of his concern.

"You shut your mouth, you impudent Frenchman!"

The man stared at him puzzled. He clearly didn't speak English. His face began to change color, and he pulled the crossbow from his belt.

_"Assez de bêtises! Où est "la bête"?"_

Mrs. Townsend stepped back a bit, but her stance was firm. She turned slightly to George and whispered to him. "Get the master safe and then get out of here!"

George glanced from her to the men. Wouldn't he be followed? Would they kill them? Mrs. Townsend nodded to him, urging him to go. He nodded in return, and they both spun around and ran off in different directions. George ducked into a narrow hallway to drive them off, winding through parlor rooms and sitting rooms. He couldn't risk being followed lest they found Matthieu. But it made no sense. How did they know of his existence? How did they find their way here? Why did they want to harm them?

He shut the final door behind him and tied the handles together with drape wire. It would hold them off, but not for long. He whirled around. The three doors stood in front of him like a cross. He rushed towards them, turning to find Matthieu exactly where he'd left him.

"Matthieu!" He scooped up his arm and urged him to stand. "We have to go! We have to go now!"

Matthieu continued to slump, overpowering the smaller man. George groaned loudly and hitched him up.

"Matthieu, we have no time for this! We are being followed."

Moaning, Matthieu shuffled his feet under him towards the silver chamber. George yanked him by his shirt, trying to urge him forward. He hoped his mother was alright. They were more likely to follow her than him, and there were so many of them. Were they not above killing women? He prayed they were. The light of the sun was beginning to fade, so George hurried his pace.

He finally reached the cold silver, setting Matthieu down on his knees. He worked with the tarnished lock to open the door. They were running out of time; he had to open it now! All of a sudden, the giant lock clattered to the floor, bits of rust and thinned metal scattering on the floor.

"Oh, no!"

The doors to the wing flew open. Matthieu paid no mind, but George was eager to hide them both and get out of there. He hauled Matthieu to his feet once again and opened the door a crack. A click made him stop.

_"Ne me force pas à te tirer dessus, gamin."_

* * *

Matthieu kept his head down, his strength seeping quickly from him. He had only moments. If only George had listened to him. It was only out of curiosity that he looked through his hair at his assailants. Tall, broad shoulders, blond hair that reached the middle of his back, and grey eyes that cut through you like arrows. He was obviously the leader, standing with authority in front of his henchmen. He was familiar, but he couldn't pin how. A crossbow was loaded in his hands and pointed at him and George.

"Give him to me, and I will let you live, boy."

George answered in English, but the man couldn't understand. Matthieu frowned at the man to get it over with, but prayed he would let the boy go. This was his death, and George did not deserve that. The man turned his gaze to Matthieu, smirking.

"Look at this, men. This is the great creature who has been terrorizing our lands. How pathetic." Matthieu paid him no mind and hung his head low. He cared little of what this stranger had to say about him, especially now. He felt George being ripped from his grasp and a hard fist collide with his stomach. Then men laughed as he fell to his hands and knees. The man stepped closer to him, pulling his face up by his hair. "I was expecting better, especially from what I thought would be a worthy kill."

He scoffed. "To think that Catherine believes there's greatness in a creature of darkness."

Catherine! He knew Catherine! The man pounded his face into the floor and got up, picking up his loaded crossbow. Matthieu strained as he pushed himself back to his knees. Catherine, he had said her name. She had called him great, and to this man filled with such disgust and hatred for him. Catherine still held affection for him. The thought made his long-dead heart flutter a bit - He gasped! A strange dizziness came over him. It was happening! He clutched his chest, letting out a painful grunt.

The man lowered his crossbow for a moment. "What? What's wrong with you?"

Matthieu stretched his neck as much as he could to meet their gaze. George was in the hands of a burlier man, anger and childish determination in his eyes. Matthieu fought to hold back the transformation a bit longer. His limbs convulsed awkwardly, but he held them in place. He muttered so quietly, they almost couldn't hear him:

_"You...moron!"_

The assailant stepped back a bit, dismayed at such an insult. Matthieu clawed at the ground, desperate and pleading for a few more moments. He swallowed.

_"You ... and all who have come here...must leave! I will kill all of you...I will KILL **ALL OF YOU!" **_

The man laughed. Did he think this was a joke? One of the other men, a skinny man who looked just like the man beside him, took a step back. "Kill him already, Jean-Charles. I don't like this."

"Alright, alright!" The man - Jean-Charles - raised his crossbow. "Just wanted to let the man indulge in his fantasy for a moment." George kicked against the burly man, distracting Jean for a brief moment. "Shut him up!"

The man clamped his large hand over George's face, covering his mouth and nose and muttering some form of apology to the boy. What was taking them so long? Why were they just standing there instead of doing something about this?!

"_Kill me," _Matthieu begged. _"Kill me quickly! PLEASE!"_

The crossbow fired into his shoulder. He lost his balance, his face hitting the floor. Another click of the crossbow signaled another arrow being loaded. Matthieu looked up, his skull beginning to burn. The crossbow released its arrow. Matthieu shot up his hand, stopping the arrow centimeters from his face. The men stared at him in dismay as his eyes seared into bright yellow.

A sickening crack startled them all. Matthieu's back arched, his shoulders coming apart and snapping back together. He'd held back too long. The wolf inside him was aching to be released, and nothing would hold it back. His arms and legs stretched and snapped, hair growing from every pore and then falling out in clumps, the arrow dropping from his shoulder to the ground. His tattered clothes fell to the floor now stained with droplets of blood dripping from his mouth, fangs stabbed their way out of his gums, and his face stretched and remolded.

Arrows and bullets pelted his skin, but they bounced off of him harmlessly. Matthieu let out a distorted wail, almost a howl. He couldn't die this way! He would much rather die by a silver bullet than by this godforsaken curse. He hoped that Catherine...the name sounded familiar. He didn't know why. Why were these men standing in front of him in fear? The longer he stared, the less he understood, and the less he cared.

A red haze fell over his eyes, focusing on the man with the crossbow. This man filled him with rage. He didn't know why, but he didn't care. He focused on the man, rising to his hind legs and raising his paw. He wanted flesh. He wanted blood! And he wanted it now!

* * *

Matthieu rose to his full height, towering over every one of the men in front of him. George fought against the large man holding him, the large hand over his mouth growing damp and clammy. The two skinny men looked at each other and immediately ran for it, the big man following close behind and dropping George in the process.

"_O__ù allez-vous chattes?! __Reviens ici!"_

The crossbow flew into the wall. Matthieu let out a feral roar towards Jean-Charles, stalking towards him. Jean pulled his pistol from his holster, trying to load it in time. Matthieu lunged and pinned the man to the floor, growling with animalistic fury that made George shiver inside.

"Matthieu, no!" he cried.

The creature snapped his head in his direction. George's breath lodged in his throat. Matthieu leapt for the boy and snatched him in his mouth. George was met with something wet and warm against his face and the sickening smell of rotten meat. His body compressed down Matthieu's narrow gullet until everything was dark. The wolf turned back to the man with the gun. He finished reloading and pointed the pistol at him again. Matthieu threw himself out the window, grabbing onto the ledge. He pulled himself onto the roof and threw back his head. He howled at the dreaded full moon.


End file.
